


Will you love me tomorrow?

by Anonymous



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adult Language, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage, Arrogant Tony, Breeders, F/F, Forced Marriage, Forced Relationship, HolyWaterWillNotBeProvided, Implied Betrayal, Legal consent, M/M, Marvel Universe, MarvelAU, Multi, Peter Doesnt Know Tony, Peter is 18, Prostitutes, Set Rules, Slow Burn, Starker, Tony is 40, Will Peter grow on Tony, civil war never happened, controlled breeding, developing plot, government control, mention of MPREG, mention of underage relationships, mentions of abuse, no talking, trophy wife
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:48:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26592433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It was supposed to be his time. Once a child turned thirteen, they were watched. By sixteen? Their position was decided and their fate sealed. It could happen at any time at that point. Anytime they could be taken; imprisoned before shelled off to their likely duty chosen for them. For Peter, it didn’t happen immediately.OrPeter is forced to Marry Tony and bear his children; falsely believing they were randomly paired. He is to forget himself, his personality, and dull himself down to conform to Tony's preference and standards. He can no longer be Spider-Man, and everything he wanted as a child proves to not be at all what he hoped. Truths are exposed, Peter's identity revealed and Tony's intentions uncovered. Will Peter find forgiveness in himself? Or will he find himself stuck in a place he doesn't want to be, married to a man he can no longer trust?
Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark (past), Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 61
Kudos: 214
Collections: Anonymous





	1. The beginning

**Author's Note:**

> The general prompt (vague excerpt that was changed drastically at the beginning of this work) is not mine nor do I know who the original author is. I would love to give credit where credit is do. With that disclaimer out of the way, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Comments, kudos and constructive criticism are always welcomed! (I embarrassingly thrive with the attention.)

It was supposed to be his time. Once a child turned thirteen, they were watched. By sixteen? Their position was decided and their fate sealed. It could happen at any time at that point. Anytime they could be taken; imprisoned before shelled off to their likely duty chosen for them. For Peter, it didn’t happen immediately. His sixteenth birthday came and passed, and despite being prepared for this very day nearly his entire life; nothing happened. No van came, no position was thrust upon him and no fate coarsed his path. Unlike his peers, he was granted those few extra years of freedom; to live as a child and enjoy the warmth of the sun without another's name brandished across his body in a claiming mark. 

Only, he was chained down by a different duty. One bestowed upon him during a freak accident that left him with some sense of duty that ended with him climbing walls by night, and rescuing complete strangers for a small rush by day. 

Still, no word from the government- despite May promising his time would come. Soon.  _ It was always soon.  _

He figured, originally, that the papers were simply mixed up. That his day had came and passed and nobody retrieved little Peter Parker because the kid from that small, run down apartment in Queens simply hadn’t made it across their radar. He was a nobody; simply not meant to be taken into captivity and presented like a trophy or repressed down to a pillow princess. 

He believed something to be wrong with him.

But then he felt it; the prickled awareness of another’s gaze casting snowflakes across his bare skin as he rushed through his clothing in a dark, dungy alleyway to wrestle on his red and blue suit. It was a silly costume he and Ned designed, a step up from his original onesie but still no where near practical given the red, cloth gloves and conforming latex that clung to his body like a second skin; adhered to his muscles to present every minute flex, but looking nothing more than a improperly dyed sex outfit where the material was unfortunately stained with red and blue. 

It, however, was cheap and easily repaired or replaced and- which was the big advantage- didn’t limit his mobility.

However, it was that day- the one where he was already late to work at the corner convenience store where Mr. Dubal was sure to be impatiently waiting for him, a broom tucked beneath his arm to breath an air of annoyance and intimidation even if he was the sweetest man Peter has ever met. Hot headed, on the days such as today- but kind. He always slipped a couple dollars into Peter’s jacket each night, and on the days Peter seemed extremely lethargic, he was always given a styrofoam container of whatever street cart was posted outside their shop. 

Peter often wonders if he was treated with such kindness because Mr. Dubal lost his wife and son in a car accident several years ago- and if there’s one thing about this ass-backwards world they live in, a do-over wasn’t possible nor plausible. They couldn’t turn back time, but Mr. Dubal sure acted like he was making a difference on those days when Peter would be bloated from too much food and unable to do his nightly duties outside of his simple little convenience store job. 

Peter never corrected him.

He was returning from his single night class, expecting to go to work and be there for a few hours before he was finally able to go home and have a nice, relaxing bath in the too-tiny tub, with the too-old water heater doing no justice to the lukewarm water that barely soothed his aching bones, when his phone pinged with a notification from the police department. 

He knew it was illegal- highly illegal, to monitor the police station and be privy to their business, but Ned insisted it would be helpful and beneficial so Peter allowed his stupidly insistent friend to hack into the network and keep him on a near constant loop of what was going on around him in New York.

Most days, it was too much. Too little. Too deadly. Too simple.

But that day, it seemed too inconvenient. 

He was a college student ignorantly ignored by the government- a blessing to some, he knew, but a curse to himself; struggling to balance work on top of school, protecting his neighborhood while keeping his identity a secret,house-hold chores and other mundane things like social appearances and nights out with his friends who so rarely got that escape since they were busy with their own lifes. They, obviously, understood but it wasn’t fair.

And he couldn’t ignore the ping. A building was on fire with three reported to be stuck on the fourth floor, out of reach of the fire fighters. 

They were, or would be to the public in tomorrow’s newspaper, classified as DOA. And Peter… he couldn’t just let that slide.

So, he abandoned his job (a consistent occurrence) abandoned his book bag filled with books that cost an entire month of May’s monthly rent, and pulled on his adult-esque sex suit that squeaked across his skin as it captured the precipitation that clung to Peter’s legs from the puddle he managed to topple knees first into a few minutes prior. 

And it was just as he was pulling on his mask, a huge improvement to his previous cloth one that made it near-impossible to breathe in, when he was first aware of the sensation of being watched. 

Of course, he thought it to be a bystander- a curious passerby who happened to glance down the alleyway and catch the half nude man-spider who was, allegedly, terrorizing the neighborhood and has been since he was just fifteen. But the prickling across his skin was too… tingly, too heavy to just be a vague warning. No, he was left with the distinct impression of being  _ seen.  _ And for more than just a quick glance from a stranger. 

No, this was his first sign of hope. Perhaps he wasn’t forgotten after all.

Perhaps he had a future, afterall, a place to belong and a story to share with his friends during one of their monthly outings. Maybe he was just saved for a later date- for someone special.

It’s not like he wanted to become a trophy husband, or a prostitute owned by one of the city's most notorious club owners, but he wanted to belong. To not be looked at as a freak by his friends, his family, when he was part of the select few individuals who wasn’t chosen for something bigger, something better; something fulfilling. Mj always told him it’s because he was too special, what with his identity of Spider-man, but he knew better. Knew it was simply because he was overlooked, and that stung. 

His entire childhood was filled with preparation for his role. He was groomed to be the perfect submissive; to bow beneath his partners will and divulge in their every whim. He was designed to pick apart their thoughts and understand their selective need of intimacy. He knew he would be perfect for his chosen role, even if he was spider-man. Even if he could lift buses above his head, and fling himself across the city with a single web. His body made indents in the ground at his very feet, and his skin healed as if it were never harmed. 

He was durable, and that made him even more worthy- he swore it did.

~~

Unbeknownst to Peter, he wasn’t forgotten or overlooked. He was given a special level of attention not paid to even the most worthy of candidates. Once he turned fifteen, his situation evolved. He was no longer destined to hold a role in Desmond Huntington’s breeding camp. No, suddenly, he was something to be valued and feared. A dangerous asset that couldn’t just be gifted to the first individual. 

No. He was watched, and his category was changed. With what they now knew, it was decided he was to spend his life as a Hunter; as someone who designated their life as a bodyguard, but many claimed that to be a waste of his talents. And then Nick Fury caught wind of his talents, and somewhere along the line Peter’s role was changed. Helped along the way by the man with one eye. 

He was dangerous but his abilities far exceeded his simple mutated abilities; and it just so happened that Fury had an entire team of worthy-bachelors awaiting the opportunity to wed a person capable of reproducing. Peter was nurturing enough- submissive enough to make one of them happy, to be bred and offer their names a legacy. An heir. 

These men were powerful and carried many different roles, titles; The World’s mightiest heroes, The Avengers- a band of misfits out on a mission to protect those incapable of protecting themselves. One thing they usually were not? Available. Given their titles, they were gifted the freedom to choose. To marry who they wanted; breed with the one they deemed worthy. A partner wasn’t thrust upon them. Their roles in society were ignorantly overlooked just because of their talents.

Until Peter came along. Then, suddenly, it was open season. 

~~

He’d given up hope, but hung onto the cusp of believing something more still awaited him on the other side of his miserable life. Perhaps not a destiny designated by the Government, but something much larger than his little life. 

And then, it happened. 

His instincts were blissfully silent when he was snatched from his third period of the day, a black bag pushed over his head yet doing nothing to muffle his senses. Life hummed on around him, and it was the fact that he was taken in broad daylight with a hundred students there to act as a witness for his disappearance that gave him some mutated comfort. 

Not exactly allowing him to relax, but enough that he didn’t go ape-shit and break the guy's hand who was gripping him a little too tightly by the back of his neck. They weren’t a threat, a  _ real  _ threat, and Peter allowed himself to be man handled as his excitement soared. 

_ He wasn’t forgotten.  _

There he was, just two years after his sixteenth birthday,  _ finally  _ shoved in the back of a van that rocked over every bump they passed over. 

He was taken to a facility just outside of City limits. It reeked of cleaner and stale air; heartache and fear palpable in the air as scared children were guided to their respected rooms and expected to blindly follow when they had no idea what future awaits them. The walls echoed with their despair, the floor ringing with the frantic steps of teens who attempted to run before they were caught and sedated.

Peter could feel their pain, hear their sobs, and all he could do was tuck his chin against his chest and hope the bag over his head didn’t come off because hearing it was one thing- seeing it? 

_ He couldn’t.  _

For the first time ever, he was thankful for his extra two years. He couldn’t imagine what sixteen year old him would have done, if put into this position. Not with his abilities still so undisciplined. 

His bag was taken off and he was thrown into a small white room with a single cot and no window, an outfit folded and sat to rest on the end of his bare bed. He was cleaned, examined, then dressed in the clothes they deemed appropriate- which were shapeless silk black pants, that looked like pajama pants, that flowed around his legs airly, and a button up, long sleeved shirt made up of the same silk material. It was the nicest thing he’s ever worn, and he knew immediately it’s because he was being presented. 

He was to be a breeder, or a husband. Nobody was cleaned, examined and dressed in silk if they were being passed off to a prostitution ring or a Hunter. 

No. His skin was scrubbed raw with lavender soap because he was intended to make a proper first impression on his future  _ partner.  _

His stomach swooped at the idea. Excitement tinged with antsiness and nerves. However prepared he was for this, he never actually considered himself worthy enough to become someone’s arm candy. 

Sleep never came that night. 

The next morning, he was removed from his room at the sign of first light and as he was being led to another room- he couldn’t help but wonder how May was. The family was notified the day of their childs ‘abduction’ but they never actually got to say goodbye. Depending on who he was paired with, they may never get to. 

May told him that when she was taken, at only fifteen years old, Ben was a breath of fresh air during those cruel times. He was older, more mature she claimed- calming and intelligent. She was lucky to be paired with him and she swore to Peter he would, one day, have his chance at happiness too. With government pairings, failures weren’t a consistent occurrence. All couples were put through a tight-knitted database and picked off of compatible attributes. 

Failing simply  _ wasn’t  _ an option. 

Happiness, however, wasn’t guaranteed, either. No matter what their computer screens said, not everyone was meant for the roles they were assigned to. May was meant to be a mother, but her story was too corrupt for Peter to ever know the true, in-depth details of what occurred during her time here, in this unknown location, placed so well it has managed to stay one of the most secure and hidden facilities for decades. 

Wherever they were, wherever this top-secret location was, it was huge and it was beautiful. The paintings lining the walls varied in sizes and details, all looking expensive with huge marble statues of men and women lining the hallways- guiding their way like lit lanterns on a darkened path. Peter couldn’t imagine this place matching the stories from May’s life; the haunting tales Ben had spun when he was alive. 

Blood. Fear. Betrayal. Corruption. Robbed of her life; her experiences. 

This, here, was beautiful. Flawless to a point, even. An intricate, delicately designed system that had its flaws but somehow ran so smoothly for years. And Peter was  _ ready _ to take on his role. 

Each one of his step was echoed back into his body,

reverberating across his spine and chattering across his teeth as his nerves grew and his sweaty palms glided across his soft pajama pants. They passed a group of children, all in outfits similar to his own but white in color- and he knew they were destined to the same path as he was. Breeders. They all stood in a line, perfectly still and patient- solemn yet proper despite the baby fat still not melting from their young, innocent faces. 

They were all still just children and by the months end, half of them would be pregnant. 

He was led down several more corridors, all filled to the brim with silent children preparing to meet their fate- save for the one hallway that was filled with adult men and women, all dressed in suits with a very distinctive tattoos on their necks, brandishing their title visibly; a black arrow enclosed in a swirled circle. 

_ The Hunter’s.  _

They were the physically superior group of individuals grouped together based on their physical attributes and intelligence. The ones too crudely cut to make it on Shields radar, still as fearless, maybe a bit more ruthless and cruel, but not as proper- yet weren’t gifted enough to cut it as a Recruit for any Superhero’s. 

They designated their lives to protecting the elite, the people, and Peter knew if his real identity were ever found out, he would be put amongst them. Hunter’s weren’t allowed to reproduce or have children of their own, and Peter didn’t want that future for himself. He wanted a family; children, a partner. Not a meaningless life of protecting everyone, just to go home to an empty bed and cold food. 

He purposefully bowed his head the second he recognized who they were, not wanting their stare to somehow lure him in and convince the bald-headed man guiding his way that they’d chosen wrong, and that he belonged amongst the emotionless, fearless men and women just a few paces behind them.

Up the stairs they went, which curled on for ages, and finally they came to a stop just outside a set of double oak doors. Peter was instructed to stay put and wait, close to the top of the stairs, while the bald man disappeared through the door with a finalizing click. 

The morning light was streaming in through the two-floor panel windows that made the stark white decor of this section of the building look like the pristine interior of the most sophisticated fishbowl.

Alone and nervous, Peter rocked back on his heels and scrubbed the palms of his hands into his bleary eyes. He was clinging on the cusp of coherence, convincing his eyes to stay open just a little longer- just a few more minutes, until he met his partner or owner. 

Since arriving here, he hasn’t allowed himself even the slightest second to wonder who he was paired with- if anyone. He may just be shipped off to a facility where he would be used to breed child after child to replenish their ever-dwindling supply of male breeders. They were a dying commodity, after all. 

Whoever it was, they were obviously important and powerful, and the silk Peter rubs his hands down is proof of that. Nobody was treated to the luxury of a dressed up partner  _ unless  _ they were an elite. Black was their color, also, and Peter wasn’t sure how he didn’t make that connection before. 

_ Fuck, of course.  _

He gasps, eyes widening as panic sets in. He was going to  _ an Elite.  _

The doors opened a second later and the bald man returned, face pale. “Peter Benjamin Parker,” the man began, voice shaking and Peter immediately straightened his spine that was turned into a live wire by his anxiety. He only ever heard his full name when May was mad at him. “Beyond that door sits your husband- a man who is to be approached with caution and respect. I need not to remind you that you were chosen for this role for a reason. You are to obey your husband, and do as he says and as he pleases. If, within the first month, he so chooses to exempt your contract and decides you are unworthy of him- then you will be sent back to this very facility before being transferred to a local prostitution ring. Have I made myself clear?”

Relief floods his body- it was a  _ man.  _ Not that he didn’t like women but he couldn’t picture himself being in a relationship with one- erm, ever? 

Peter nodded, once, afraid his voice would fail him now when he needed it the most. He was to be wed off to a man- an elite man, and it took everything in him to tame the bubbling excitement stuck between his clavicles, inflating there like a balloon filled with hot helium. He thought himself to be forgotten- and  _ now _ he was being delivered the most honorary title one cold ever hope for? 

He’s never allowed himself to even  _ dream _ of this possibility. If anything, he thought he’d wind up with some man or woman who worked some low end job. A person of his rank, considering he didn’t come from wealth or a name worth remembering. 

His silence was met with a curt glare. “I expect you to address your husband with words- not head gestures.”

“Yes sir.”  _ Husband.  _ Butterflies swarmed Peter’s stomach, barely manageable. 

“Good.” with a self-pleased smile, the bald man steps back and gestures towards the closed doors. 

With one last deep breath, Peter pushes them open and nearly trips on the lips of carpet on his way in. 

He rights himself, flustered by his trip up, and comes face to face with hard, distant brown eyes that scream of the worlds secrets, yet shutter stubbornly to hide all Peter sought out in the simple gaze. “Hello,” the man- that man, this man- not  _ possibly  _ the man Peter is here to meet, says, hand extended to Peter out of politeness and with a shortcuritcuting brain, he can't seem to command his limbs to obey his thoughts.

He stands stupidly, mouth clamped shut and eyes wide because holy  _ shit-  _ this is Tony  _ freaking  _ Stark. The man who was taped across his bedroom walls during his childhood; the man he worshiped before he could even form a single word properly. A man who he studied day in and day out for  _ years, _ the logic behind his science, before Iron-Man was even a thing. 

And now, his childhood fantasy-  _ obsession,  _ stood before him so expectant and all Peter could manage was an open-mouthed smile. 

Tony’s lips curl in a smile and he retracts his hand, Peter’s embarrassment palpable or so he imagines. “I see they didn’t warn you of who I was before throwing you in here, did they, kid?” his hum vibrates down to Peter’s toes and he suppresses a shutter. He shakes his head no, and Tony’s smile deepens. “Didn’t think so. They like to throw fresh meat out to the sharks. They get off on your fear,”

“Tony,” a soft voice warned gently from the corner of the room and Peter whipped his head in their direction, finding it to be none other than Pepper Potts sitting on the window seat overlooking the entire forest encircling them. Seeing she caught Peter’s attention, she stands and smoothes her skirt. “Hello, I’m Pepper-” she approaches him with a cautionness that leaves Peter with the impression that, once upon a time, she stood exactly where he stood. Understands what he is feeling right now. “Tony’s designated babysitter.”

“I wouldn’t call you my babysitter,” Tony argues, “Maybe my nanny, but babysitter makes you sound like a pedophile considering we’ve-”

“Okay!” Pepper cuts him off with clapping hands, startling Peter, “I need a moment to speak with my  _ child,  _ Peter, excuse us.” 

Pepper jerks Tony towards where she previously stood and despite their hushed whispers, Peter can still hear them;

“ _ Totally not appropriate to discuss our affair whilst in the middle of meeting your fiance.” _

_ “Fiance?” Tony snorts, “Please, Pep, he’s a kid. I have hair on my balls older than him.” _

_ “You agreed to this, Tony- quite acting like a child and discussing our sex life. He’s already scared enou-” _

Peter, with warming cheeks, zones out on a patch on the floor imprinted with the leg of the couch, meaning they just recently rearranged the room, and intentionally ignores anything said further because he  _ definitely  _ wasn’t supposed to hear any of that. 

Reeling, he stumbles over to the couch now facing the southern wall, and leans a single hip against it for support without actually sitting on it- wanting to remain respectful and professional even if his jelly knees were quivering. 

Tony Stark stood just inches away from him, with his ex-whatever scolding him like he was a two year old child and Peter felt dizzy. 

He knows that waking up is inevitable. He’s going to go to sleep in this dream, and wake up back in May’s run down apartment with the whistling furnace and luke-warm water. The only problem is,  _ he didn’t want to wake up.  _

Accustomed to a life that wasn’t his came with startling ease, and he doesn’t understand how he managed to grasp it so quickly- only having been presented with it. It was too good to be true and if this was reality, not some concoction cooked up by his sleep deprived brain- then he  _ wanted  _ it. So bad it scared him. 

It was  _ Tony Stark-  _ of course he wanted him. Even if he  _ was  _ younger than the man’s testicle hair.

After a few more seconds of  _ really  _ bad whispering, Tony turns to the side and eyes Peter for the slightest second, but doesn't actually move or approach him. “You got a name?”

Peter swallows hard and looks down at the floor, intimidated to no ends but also aware of what’s expected of him. No eye contact. Do not speak unless spoken to. Respect. Respect.  _ Respect _ . “P-Peter, sir,” he whispers, tacking on the name for further flattery. Men of Tony’s standing appreciated being called things of similar relation to make them feel powerful and authoritative. In control. 

Tony rolls his eyes, leaving Peter feeling like he’s done something wrong, and whispers something to Pepper Peter can't hear over the thundering rush of blood pounding through his ears. “Keep the formalities to a minimum, kid. I’m your  _ fiance,”  _ he says the name with such distaste, and Peter wonders if he willingly agreed to the role, “not your owner.”

“You’re right, sorry si-  _ Tony,”  _ Oh, and that felt so very wrong. To address  _ Iron-Man  _ by his first name. Oh, no.  _ No.  _ Peter wouldn’t be doing that again anytime soon. 

Tony curled two fingers over his shoulder as he passed by Peter, and the boy took the silent command for what it was and silently began to follow him. “I’m supposed to read off some long list from their rule book. You aren’t allowed to speak unless spoken to, you’re supposed to address me as sir or master- yadda yadda yadda. Simply put, I’m supposed to remind you of everything you lost when these creeps threw you into the back of their nice little van- speaking of, isn’t that against the law? I’m sure it is. Throwing kids in the back of your van?” Tony shakes his head and clicks his tongue, jogging down the stairs with ease, “Only if you’re  _ not  _ a legal pedophile, I forgot. Of  _ course  _ our men in suits get away with it. How old are you, anyway.”

Peter wasn’t sure what the fuck he was rambling on about, but it made his nerves lessen tremendously, even if the name ‘kid’ did make him feel small and inferior. “Eighteen, sir.”

Tony whirled on him so fast that Peter ran smack into him, and to save him from falling Tony caught Peter by his elbow and held on  _ tightly.  _ “What have I told you about that?” he asked from between clenched teeth, eyes narrowed, “Call me Tony or don’t call me anything.”

Peter nodded, but hadn’t the opportunity to say anything before Tony let go of his arm and spun around- picking their previous conversation back up with ease, like nothing had just happened. “I knew that. Good for you, being an adult and all. Real proud,”

Was he- he sounded sarcastic? Which, okay, was much better than his flare of anger from before but Peter was genuinely confused and lost. He may not have been  _ terrified,  _ but scared was a good description of his reaction to Tony’s burst of anger from a simple name. Men in these arrangements were horrible and scary, and Peter knew Tony to be one of those things. He was known as the merchant of death previously, and Iron-Man now. A man of both positions didn’t get there without being scary, but even now Peter could tell Tony wasn’t horrible. 

Or so he hoped. 

As a kid, Peter had been obsessed with Tony’s mind and all of his scientific discoveries. Then, it transitioned into an obsession of Iron-man. It flared hot again when he was first bit by the spider, and The Avengers first banned together. But the man's public image was sure to be different from his  _ real  _ image. His personality was guaranteed to be smoothed and perfected for the public's sake. Airbrushed for the snowflakes. 

Eyes were on them, around them- people surrounding them and whispering and Peter was only made aware of this the second he deterred his thoughts from obsessing over who he was paired with and the possibility of conflict in their future. Every single person in their immediate presence were watching them-  _ him, Tony  _ as the man led them outside and apparently it was an occurrence meant to be gawked at. 

It wasn’t everyday a man of Tony’s social standing was married off in an arrangement, after all. 

“They’re staring at you,” Peter whispered, just loud enough Tony could hear. 

“Trust me,” Tony said over his shoulder, not stopping in his steps forward, “they’re staring at you.”

And Tony was right. They  _ were  _ watching Peter. His every single movement. “W-Why?”

Tony turned around, mastering the act of walking backwards, and hid his grin as he rubbed his finger across his bottom lip. “What can I say? Black looks good on you.”

~~~


	2. You'll live a nice, cushioned life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii! Oh my gosh, can I just say as I am writing this my heart is SO happy! I never expected to receive so much positive feedback with the first chapter. You guys have truly made me the happiest writer today, and I plan to respond to each and every comment I get. They mean SO much to me.
> 
> Cheers to the next chapter, and I hope I don't let you down!
> 
> Side note; Peter is intentionally depicted as sort of... numb. He's not sure how to react right now, and a large part of that is from shock. Once our firecracker thaws, it's going to be a light show in the Avenger's tower. :)
> 
> (My update schedule will be every Tuesday, if not with a few chapters sprinkled here and there randomly- like this one. But I will post at least ONE chapter a week! enjoy.)

Peter was so  _ nervous.  _

Convincing himself of one thing, then being presented with another was disorienting, simply put.  _ Tony  _ was disorienting. 

A man with a Hunter tattoo greeted them once they left the compound base; Tony addressing him by the name Happy and Peter found it ironic because the man seemed anything but happy. He never spoke a word to him, but Peter got the impression he wasn’t  _ liked _ by the beefy man with beady eyes _.  _ Perceived as a threat- no, perhaps a  _ nuisance _ , a waste of time- but definitely not a threat _.  _

Due to privacy issues, once placed safely in the backseat of the car that Happy seemed to have been guarding with his life, a job he clearly took serious and Peter admired his dedication but felt uneasy in his presence, Tony forced Peter to bend forward with his chin touching his knees to ensure he didn’t see the exact location they were leaving-

“It’s for their safety. You get that, right kid?”

Not really. Peter didn’t understand why the specific location was so top secret, but he also wasn’t about to argue with Tony so he stayed perfectly silent- watching his bare toes press into the surprisingly soft floorboard of the Sedan with his chin tucked securely against his knees.

Silence inhabited the space around them for so long, Peter was convinced Tony fell asleep until he heard the silent whirring of a window rolling up- the grinding of glass against plastic reaching only his sensitive ears, and with the patience of a two year old he had to fight the urge to turn his head to the side and just  _ look.  _

He didn't like being so.. vulnerable. So susceptible to anything Tony wanted to do. 

He was high strung- shoulders pulled tight like a bow string, quivering beneath the force of holding still and he knew one miscalculated breath from Tony would set him off. He could hear the man; feel him, Tony’s very presence so suffocating and tangible Peter could feel him wrapping around him like a soft, comforting blanket. Weighted with warning, but providing warmth and serenity within its grasp. 

He was dangerous, that much was evident, but it was so much more than just a vague feeling. It was the sense of a composed explosion, of withholding his every urge, every instinct, to do what was required of him. It was a lack of integrity with an overabundance of pride. It was like… being here felt right, but admitting that would go against everything he stood for. And Peter didn’t understand it. 

Everything he was reading off just the beat of Tony’s slow heart. 

“You can sit up, now,” Tony permitted, and Peter was so focused on the thrum of his heart that his voice was amplified to the point of being uncomfortable. 

Being who he was, with his selective talents, wasn’t a particularly easy thing when living in New York. The entire City was alive beneath his very feet. Life hummed on around him, blissfully unaware of just a single presence as it danced from person to person- greeting one with the smell of freshly baked bread, and the other with that sickly sweet perfume spritzed carelessly into the air and travels from person to person in invisible beads of moisture. So many different assaults to Peter’s senses; so many overwhelming stimuli’s one would think he’s learned to shut them out. To control his senses and manage to prevent sudden spikes when he was distracted. 

It was obvious, now with ringing ears, he wasn’t that talented. 

Since he wasn’t granted permission to speak just yet, Peter bites down on his tongue and finally straightens his curved spine, relieved to finally have his sight smooth out and balance his over-eager ears. Crossing his legs at the ankles, Peter brushes his fringe back and out of his eyes, watching out the window as forestry turns into large, looming buildings. 

Still, silence. 

Peter had so much to ask, so many questions he needed answered otherwise he wouldn’t be satisfied but he wasn’t  _ permitted.  _ Unknowing of Tony’s feelings on the rules typically enforced, he didn’t want to test his luck. 

However hard this was going to be, however impossible being silent seemed, he was here to stay. He’s perfected his craft, ensured himself to be the  _ perfect _ partner and with a lower lip nearly bitten raw, he straightened his posture and gazed out the window, hoping to find an answer there on why the silence around them felt heavy and uncomfortable; not light and airy. 

Tony was tapping on his thigh, impatient and insistent and it was distracting enough that Peter couldn’t focus on the window long enough to see his reflection staring back at him, to find the answer hidden in his blank face. “Do you talk?”

Biting his lip, Peter looked back at Tony to make sure the question was directed at him and when he found the man’s expectant gaze, he sighed.  _ Finally.  _ “I do.” he admitted, soft and hesitant, “a lot, actually. My aunt bought me a muzzle for my twelfth birthday as a joke because I apparently talked too much.”

Tony laughed, pleased by this sliver of information regarding Peter and, in turn, warmth pooled in his stomach because  _ he  _ made Tony laugh. “I have quite a few ideas on how a muzzle would come in handy- tell me, did she implement it at all?” something dark and alluring sparked there, in Tony’s eyes. A hungry sort of danger that Peter knew very well would burn him if he dared touch, yet he felt… daring. 

“Once or twice,” he breathed, eyes flickering towards the reflective privacy screen that now sat between them and Happy; glinting black in the sunlight beating against the tinted windows. 

Unsurity sparked in his core. Did he pitch his voice lower, higher- was he expected to delve beneath Tony immediately and present himself like a cat in heat? Did he look here, or there? At Tony, or at his own clasped hands ringing in his lap; half crescent moon shapes littering his palms from where his fingernails bit a little too harshly.

It was so hard reading Tony, even as the man regarded him with an unhidden amusement and curiosity. Peter wanted to feel like a cat; to give in to his curious nature even if it unwinds Tony’s carefully articulated facade and he sees all that’s hidden beneath the surface. The man is brimming with this deliciously sort of iniquity, something Peter has prepared his entire life to be on the receiving end of. 

He wants to discover every crevice inside this man's beautifully intricate mind, and find out exactly why- as he watches Peter now, his brows divot above a scrunched nose and his mouth forms into a hard-lined pout. A look that’s here and gone, conflicted- tortured, yet flittering and replaced by a sinful smile. 

“Tell me, Peter, are you a rule kind of guy? Or do you mind if I take a creative route and make up my own as we go?”

That left  _ way  _ too many possibilities open; way too many suggestions dancing on his smirk and Peter didn’t like that feeling- a mixture between this foreign excitement and fear. He was raised having the generic rules pounded into his mind. This was Peter’s one shot and he didn’t like being so out of his element. Unsure and uncertain in how to address or act around the man. 

He wanted to say yes- to take that daring step towards an exciting future, but the part of him that was  _ bent  _ into submission refused to believe this was anything  _ but a  _ test. Tony wore the exact persona of a man Peter was born to please; was the embodiment of the Government’s idea of a  _ super  _ Elite. These ‘rules’ Tony wanted to dismiss were probably the same ones he helped create- ones his father and his father before him implemented. Dismissing them like they weren’t important or burned into every part of Peter’s brain seemed like a ridiculous concept. 

Tony couldn’t possibly want that uncontrolled chaos to be introduced into his home. Peter  _ needed  _ rules. He needed foundation.

He shook his head no, and realized with the hard set of Tony’s jaw that something in the man’s eyes died that exact moment. His previous attempt at humor, Peter thinks- maybe that playful glint Peter had seen slowly introduced as the man’s sarcasm increased. 

The hope Peter held before of Tony being civil dimmed to a small, flickering candle flame in the corner that looked starved of oxygen. A simple decline, and Peter knew he lost a large portion of Tony. 

He wanted to retract his cowardness, to tell Tony he was just teasing and that  _ of course _ he felt safe and comfortable squashed beneath the man's thumb so completely, so disorientingly. He would rely on his every move, his every step- every  _ breath _ a command, but he wanted to erase that distant look from Tony’s face. 

“Then we’ll discuss the ones best fit for our situation at dinner tonight,” Tony said before Peter could even attempt to mend his mistake. His voice holds a certain steely quality to it; cold and distant, yet undeniably strong and authoritative. He didn’t sound pleased with this development, yet that didn’t mean he wasn’t okay with forcing his hand. 

“Yes, sir,” Peter says before he can even think to withhold the name, habit taking over. 

Tony’s eyes snap in his direction, anger a thin veil burning away over his darkening eyes and Peter squirmed beneath the gaze, refusing to meet it and give him the satisfaction. “I thought I made myself perfectly clear; you are to call me by my name, or nothing at all.” 

“I-I’m sorry,” Peter whimpered, taken aback by the raw rage in Tony’s voice, “It’s a habit.” 

“Unlearn it, then,” Tony snaps, words enunciated by his hand smacking against his thigh and dragging down to curl over his knee. “I would much rather never hear you talk again than play part in their fetishizing of older males.” 

Peter jumped at the smack of Tony’s palm against his silk-clad thigh, body tensing as a foreign warmth spread from his core and curled outwards, warming his toes with a single gust. The man's hand was large and heavy, but as it curled even tighter around his knee- in warning, Peter couldn’t find any comfort within the touch. 

“Y-Yes. I’m sorry.” 

Shame burns hotly at his cheeks, contending with the fire sparked by Tony’s calloused hand and slowly, it wins the battle as it creeps across his chest and up his neck. He wants to curl up and die, embarrassed by the fact that he’s already fucked up and he’s not been with Tony for even an hour. 

It was going to be a long day.

—-

It was a fluke, to believe kindness was Tony’s default setting. Apparently, Peter just managed to bring out the worst qualities in the people he surrounds. 

Once they arrived at the tower Peter has passed by every single day for the past five months on his way to college- unknowing that one day, he would inhabit one of the rooms in the large, intimidating building, he was passed off to a stocky woman who greeted them at the entrance of the building. Like she’d been expecting them. Like she knew her role now was to babysit Peter.

Tony didn’t offer instructions or a department. He just left; not a glance spared in Peter’s direction and the boy didn’t know if he should feel relieved or upset. He certainly felt cold.

“Excuse Mr. Stark,” the woman, who Peter was assuming was a maid, said- withered fingers smoothing down the white apron draped across her neck and torso. “He doesn’t deal with change well. He’s just a little on edge, give him some time.”

Time was something they definitely didn’t have. Peter has a month to make a real impression on Tony, otherwise the fantasy laid before him would be wiped away and ripped from his grasp before he ever truly had the luxury of living it. Not even a day together and Peter’s progression has taken a turn for the worse.

Tony seemed annoyed and put out by Peter’s presence since the moment they met. Not even a few hours together and Peter has apparently done so much wrong that Tony can’t even stand talking to him. Which, okay, that’s fine. He can handle silence. It was better than the aggressive alternative, he supposes. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” Peter says, head bowed in respect. The woman may just be a maid, yes, but she still held a title above Peter and he wasn’t about to disrespect her in a home she ran. 

“Shall I show you to your room?” 

“Yes. I’d like to get settled in before I’m to share a bed.”

She looks surprised by this, if not a little sympathetic. “You are to bed alone,” she says, soft, like she  _ knows  _ how impactful this news was to someone as fragile as Peter. “Mr. Stark requested your room be made up days ago. Is this wrong? Perhaps I’ve misunderstood his intentions.”

This.. hurts more than it should. Peter didn’t know what he expected, but to be iced out like this before even having the opportunity to show Tony his worth  _ stung.  _ “No, I’m sorry to make assumptions. That’s my mistake.” his smile feels tight. “Please, lead the way.”

Again, like at the compound, the burn of curious gazes surrounded them; prying at his skin, attempting to delve beneath the protection of his flowing clothing. People are talking in hushed whispers, too many to pinpoint just one and in the steady flow of conversation, the words all melded together in an overwhelming stream pounding at Peter’s ears. 

As Spider-Man, being the object of one’s attention wasn’t a forgeign concept. But here, as he stood on the main floor of a building that inhabits arguably the most important people on this planet, it was different. He didn’t have the added protection of his Spider-Man persona. The added cockiness, assurance. He was just little Peter Parker, a kid from Queens. His suit was absent, and he had nothing to hide behind now as cameras flashed around him. Immortalizing his embarrassment and shame.

After a long elevator ride, they’re deposited on the eighty-third floor- a irish lilted female voice guiding their every movement and granting them access to rooms that were otherwise inaccessible. The woman, the maid, seemed used to it so Peter didn’t bother reacting to it at all, despite how amazing it all seemed- familiarity with the concept of the invisible woman prodding at his mind. 

He was led down a long corridor that twisted and curved, numerous rooms branching off from the corridors they walked through until finally, at the end of one, they stopped in front of a single wood door.

“Here we are,” she breathes, obviously exerted from the long walk and Peter doesn’t blame her. It took a good fifteen minutes just to navigate here from the elevator. It was so far from the other rooms, so secluded and Peter can’t help but wonder if that was intentionally done so Tony didn’t have to look at him? Didn’t have to acknowledge his presence. “If you need anything at all, ask Friday. I’m not entirely sure what she is, so forgive me for my lack of knowledge, but she’s always listening. She’s a.. a, um-”

“Artificial Intelligence integrated throughout the entire building?”  _ Fascinating.  _ Peter studied the process behind Mr. Stark's budding AI developmental breakthroughs for a science project, only to find out Tony’s discoveries went completely silent after his third published paper regarding the mechanism and potential dangers behind creating an artificial intelligence of that categorical intelligence and independence. Many thought he gave up on them, but here it seems that to be the furthest thing from the truth. 

Her eyes sparkle with relief. “That, yes! Thank you, Master Parker.”

Peter flushes at the name, partially understanding now why Tony doesn’t like to be called sir. “Please, call me Peter.”

She smiles, soft and warm and so startling close to May that it makes Peter’s heart hurt. “Peter,” she says once, like she was testing the weight of it on her tongue. Nodding decisively, she pats his shoulder and turns to walk away. “Settle in. I’ll be up in a few hours to fetch you for dinner.”

Peter pushes the door open and walks into the room, greeted by the saddest, dullest room he’s ever accounted to this date. Pulled back white curtains blending seamlessly with the tan carpet and white duvet. A single dresser stood in the corner, the brown wood smelling of a faint lemony furniture polish and something a bit more woodsy. There was a single door that was open, revealing a walk-in closet with rows of empty hangers. 

It was so impersonal and bare, leaving Peter feeling inexplicably hollow as he sat on the end of his bed, watching through the curtain wall as people marched on about their day. Unaware that, stories above them, sat a boy so out of his element he felt like crying.

As a child, he had this grand idea of being whisked away by his husband. Of having a romance that burned so bright and hot it scorched anyone and everyone within their immediate vicinity. He thought of how he’d act, and what he’d finally do when he finally met the missing piece to his puzzle; his other half. 

This, sitting alone in a room that felt cold and in no way like home- so removed from anyone who could give him even a sliver of comfort, with no clothes or items to call his own- definitely wasn’t anything he envisioned. Tony wasn’t who he envisioned. 

But, he supposes, asking for all of that was too much. Too selfish. He was finally being granted what he’s wanted-  _ begged  _ for for two years, and rather than being grateful, he’s dwelling on everything he doesn’t have. All he’s missing. 

He just wants May.

~~~

It was an unknown amount of time later when there was a knock on his door, and the same woman from before was peeking her head in with puffed cheeks to inform Peter it was time for dinner. It was only on their way down that Peter had the decency to wonder what happened to Pepper, and where she disappeared to after they left the room at the compound.

She probably ventured off to her own life, he supposes, too unbothered with Tony to continue mediating his life. 

They take the elevator up a few floors, and then Peter’s lead through a large living room with the biggest television he’s ever seen mounted on the wall- through a kitchen and finally to a large dining room with two place settings presented on opposite sides of the table, one on each end. The maid, who he certainly needs to ask her name, encouragingly ushers him towards the setting closest to them and Peter takes his seat silently.

He smooths his hands down his shirt, a little self conscious over the fact that he’s worn this for two days and doesn’t have a single article of clothing to change into. The pajamas were comfortable, and definitely the softest, nicest thing he’s ever worn. But he wanted to impress Tony, not disgust him with a lack of hygienic care. 

Turning to ask the maid when Tony will be down, he finds she’s gone and in her place- hovering in the door frame and leaving the stifled impression of being too large for this tiny room, stands Tony. A yellow manila folder rests beneath his crooked arm, hidden from Peter’s immediate sight but it still leaves his stomach tied in uncomfortable knots. 

Tony is watching him with an unreadable expression, one that makes Peter squirm. It’s like he’s being picked apart- studied for a science project. Each minute flick of his gaze taking in Peter’s every flaw and with a decisive hum, Tony leaves the boy to pick at the skin around his fingernails to take his seat a football field's length away. 

Peter feels like he might just have to shout to be heard. 

“I trust Helena helped you get settled in?” Tony asks, still not sitting, and Peter files the name away for later use before nodding. 

“She did. The room is beautiful, Tony. I love it.” He says, realizing how overly genuine he sounded. Tony saw the room; he had to know the lie in Peter’s awed breath, not that he wasn’t grateful. He was.

But he wanted to share a room with Tony. 

“I’m glad,” Tony sets the folder down and places his hands on either side of his plate, using them for support as he leans forward and despite the length of a million moons inhabiting the space between them, Peter swears he can feel the man’s breath ghosting over his fluttering eyelids. “You’ll be sized for clothing later in the evening,” he says, almost as if he can sense Peter’s self-consciousness as he, once more, flattens a palm down the ridged row of buttons.

Peter swears if he wasn’t so muted by shock from this entire ordeal of being chosen for  _ Tony _ , he’d be mooning over him right about now. Fawning over his obviously attractive partner while salivating at his feet- and he knew it was inevitably coming. Just when he regained his senses and didn’t feel like a mannequin walking around in his life, experiencing all he was experiencing only dulling his reactions with a cushioned sort of wall that separates him from the real world. 

Coming back to himself, Peter shakes his head. “That isn’t necessary,” Peter insists adamantly despite knowing denying Tony was almost as bad as slapping the man. It was disrespectful, and Peter bowed his head to soften the blow of what repercussion may come. “I-I mean, I’m grateful for the thought, Tony. It means a lot, but I have clothes back ho- back at my Aunt’s house. I don’t need anything new so please don’t spend any money on me.”

He hopes his slip-up wasn’t caught, but the narrowing of Tony’s eyes wasn’t comforting. 

_ This  _ was home now. How stupid could Peter possibly be?

“Although I appreciate your concern for my money, it  _ is  _ mine to do with as I please.” Tony smirks and sits down, tucking his chair in closer and somehow making the simple task appear elegant with the warm, white light from the dimmed chandelier hanging above them, twinkling with the melody of a hundred clanking crystals hiding a million rainbows just out of Peter’s reach, highlights the curve of his nose and the perfectly trimmed facial hair. “If I were to go out and buy you an island tomorrow, I would expect you to be  _ grateful.  _ Not question my intentions or deny me the opportunity to spoil you. It is my privilege and I will not have you questioning me again.”

Peter’s sharp inhalation was from a suppressed cough, and  _ not  _ from the panic rising as Tony’s voice grew in volume.  _ Certainly  _ not. 

“Yes, Tony.”

Tony gives a self-indulgent smile and nods. “Now, with that cleared up, I have here a printed copy from the generic rule-book. I’ve taken the liberty to change and add them to my personal taste. You’re free to do the same.” at a gesture over Tony’s shoulder, Helena materializes out of thin air and grabs the folder he holds up. 

With a straightening spine, Peter takes it from her and smiles. “Thank you, Helena.”

She doesn’t respond and disappears just as quickly as she’d arrived, melting back into the shadows. 

“Would you like me to read them now, Tony?” Peter  _ hated  _ calling him by his name- it seemed far too personal and intimate given their limited knowledge of each other and that was definitely something he needed to bring to the man’s attention. It was clear to be a problem for Tony, but calling the man by his name was a problem for Peter. They’d have to find a common ground. 

Tony shakes his head, and fingers at the forks positioned with meticulous care. “I, and keep in mind honesty is a big thing for me, honestly don’t care. I’m going to sit down here and enjoy my meal- you can do whatever it is that you do.”

Peter wants to remind him that there is no food, his grumbling stomach evidence of that, but it seems like Tony’s words were an invitation the tower heard because in the span of a blink, a flux of people flooded the room. Two men with aprons approached both Tony and Peter, setting a plate with a silver cloche over it in front of them while another man presented them with a bottle of wine and a woman began lighting the candles placed sporadically but intentionally inconsistent around the room to soften the atmosphere and add a wonderfully faint vanilla scent. 

“Wine, Peter? Are you a red or a white guy? I feel like you’re a red wine type.”

Peter clears his throat, fingers itching to remove the cloche. The food smells wonderful, whatever it is. “I wouldn’t know, s-  _ Tony _ , i’ve never drank before.”

“That’s going to be a real problem for you, isn’t it?” 

Peter knows he shouldn’t confirm a flaw, but he nods regardless. Tony just said honesty was a big thing for him, and calling him by his name made Peter uncomfortable to an extent that wasn’t easily ignorable. “It is.”

Tony sighs and despite Peter not being old enough to legally drink, and Tony being more than aware of that, he’s handed a glass filled with deep-red wine hinted with purple hues. “Read the rules, then we’ll discuss things further.”

He wants to eat, but he wasn’t going to go against a direct order from Tony so he regretfully pushes his plate away and fills the space with the folder, opening it to reveal a stack of paper the thickness of a magazine. 

Everything was generic at first, with rules Peter expected and anticipated. No talking unless spoken to, no sleeping outside of the relationship, no discussing personal matters, no direct eye contact and absolutely no talking-back or intentional disrespect. 

But then it diverges from the original rules and, on the second page, there’s so many sentences that have black ink striking through them that Peter doesn’t even bother reading through them and instead flips the page. And again, when he finds the same insolence. Three full pages of nothing but scribbles, and then he finally flips to a page with numerous rules penciled in.

Including, but not limited to, a professional obligation to attend every single public event with Tony, regardless of personal feelings- absolutely no questioning of Tony’s outside activities or adventures, no snooping around the Avenger compound, no bothering the Avengers or shield agents, no poor public appearances, no communication with anybody without Tony’s direct consent- no leaving the tower without Tony or an escort and, upon finishing the contract, he was to hand over his phone. A newer Stark Industries phone would be offered in replacement, but Peter knew that was simply translation for; “ _ here, let me take your phone so I can give you one that I made and fully intend to spy on whenever I want.” _

_ He was being thoroughly silenced.  _

One thing he did find, however, was a startling absence of anything regarding their sexual life. There were no rules or clarified preferences- no kinks or fetishes listed and, as Peter flips the pages eagerly- wanting to find exactly what drives Tony wild, he finds paragraphs upon paragraphs of excerpts from the rule books they were all provided with in the sixth grade, during their sex-education class. But nothing that was personalized by Tony. 

Their sex life was left wonderfully and ignorantly bare- unscathed and ignored. 

“I, urm, I have a question,” Peter said, flushed and embarrassed yet soldering on. “I noticed you didn’t include anything in regards to our- urm- relationship and I guess I’m just curious how we’re going to work. Is this just a sexual agreement? No romance or anything? I-I’m just here, at your disposal, meant to… what?”

Tony looks unfazed by the question, like he expected it, and chews deliberately slow with a knife held in the air to request just a  _ moment.  _ His swallow was audible. “I thought they covered this course in school?” Tony asks, and it seems he’s getting enjoyment out of this entire debacle. 

Peter’s brows furrow. “They do, sir. They prepare us for all sorts of situations but I need to know which one applies to our relationship to better please you. I don’t want any misentupriations on my part to create a negative environment.”

“I suppose you’ll stay in the room I’ve provided you with until after the wedding, then you’ll move into my rooms after,” Tony says, looking taken aback by what Peter said- maybe a bit bothered. He, thankfully, didn’t notice Peter’s slip-up. “Entering this agreement was for convenience, not to find my Juliet. So, no, kid- and I’m sorry if this crushes all your little school-girl fantasies but I’m not interested in becoming the Clyde to your Bonnie. I want kids- that’s simple enough.”

“So… what?” Peter asks, attempting to hide his hurt over the fact that he was, essentially, just a sex toy meant for Tony’s breeding. Nothing more would come of them; nothing further to develop. “We wed, I have your children- then what happens?”

Tony shrugs, the thought obviously never having crossed his mind. “You’ll live a nice, cushioned life.”

A nice, cushioned life  _ wasn’t  _ what Peter  _ wanted.  _ He wanted more, the romance- the love that burned like a light-house. He wanted an uncle Ben, and the fact that he would never get that  _ hurt.  _ Tears welled in his eyes but he was stubbornly refusing to let them fall. “I appreciate this opportunity, sir.” and  _ christ,  _ his voice has gone thick and low, laden with remorse for  _ ever  _ wasting his time praying for this. 

“What did you expect?” Tony asks, and Peter can see he’s genuinely curious. He's not asking to just rub the salt further into the wound or to even gloat. 

Peter shakes his head and sniffles, studying the intricate design on the handle of his cloche. “I don’t know.” he admits, pathetically. “As a child, I knew I would be married off without a choice or- or worse. My aunt prepared me to the best of her abilities- but I was foolish to allow my fantasies to slip into the lessons. She would teach me how to properly act, and I would file it away because I believed.. I-I  _ thought-” _

“You thought you’d have romance.” Tony finishes for him, and his voice was far too unsympathetic for Peter’s liking. Cold and dismissive. Almost chastising. 

He nods. “I did.” It made him feel pathetic, but dear god did he want romance. He wanted happiness and  _ love.  _ He would happily follow each and every rule Tony set. He would give up his life, his friends-  _ May  _ just to feel like he belonged so thoroughly and unquestioningly. He wanted someone to love him like Ben loved May. Like his father loved his mother. 

“I can’t control how you feel or what you believe,” Tony says, voice carefully calculated and level, “But I can control how I feel and I promise you right here, right now, love will never be a chip I throw into this little game. I’ve loved very few, Peter, and they earned their position. You won’t have the opportunity to ever achieve what you’re looking for, and I need you to understand that.”

He feels a pain like he’s never felt before, lacerating and sharp, but he understands. “As you wish, sir.”

Tony clears his throat and sits up properly in his seat, Peter keeping his eyes at chest-level to avoid any visual confrontation. “I have no room for the distractions you’re guaranteed to cause, so you are to stay in your rooms until your presence is requested.”

Until his presence was requested.  _ Like he was a dog.  _ “I will not be a bother, sir, you have my word.”

Suddenly, hands slam down on the table and Peter’s glass of red wine topples over, lapping over the edge of the table in a water-falled gust of red liquid and dosing Peter’s lap with the chilled wine. He goes still, his entire body tensing to control any and all reactions even with fear quivering down his spine and tears reglossing his eyes. 

“Have we not discussed this topic enough?” Tony shouts, furious, and Peter’s not sure how he’s intended to react. He’s never had a male- certainly not one capable of what Tony’s capable of, yell at him. “I have asked you  _ multiple  _ times, Peter, not to call me that name yet you still fucking  _ insist.  _ Why is it so hard?”

“I-I’m sorry,” he mumbles numbly through trembling lips, fingers stuck together with the sticky red wine. “I don’t like calling you by your name, especially now if we’re to have a strictly professional marriage.”

“God damn it,” Tony growls, breathing heavily and unevenly through his nose, each breath ragged and forced. Peter doesn’t understand why it’s such a problem, besides some vague understanding of it sexualizing older men, and he knows Tony won’t communicate the topic further with him. Disclose anything that seems personal. “Forget it. Enjoy your evening, Peter. We’ll discuss deadlines tomorrow. I expect to find you down here, freshly dressed and showered, by seven am.”

“Yes,”

“Call me what you must, Peter.” Tony says, sounding like it  _ physically pains him,  _ and with that, he disappears through the door and Peter is left a quivering mess in his seat, sticky and cold with his heart beating erratically against his rib cage. It was a fear he’s never felt before, a fear he thought to be absent since becoming Spider-Man. 

For the first time in his life, he was terrified of what his future may hold.


	3. Mild punishments include;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our poor Peter. :/
> 
> Also, disclaimer, do not read forward if you do not like the BDSM undertones I am already implementing into the story- or you're not fond of a cruel Tony because I fully intend to have him grow increasingly worse as the story progresses. 
> 
> For the rest of you, enjoy!
> 
> xx
> 
> (Chapter is late but life is a bitch. Lmao. I have the next two pre-written, so I am right on track with schedule now. :)

_ Curfew, money allowance, friends only approved by Tony- punishments.  _

Peter collapses back on his bed with the newest sheet of rules crushed to his chest, the fresh black ink and crisp paper still smelling of that inky printer smell with the hint of some bitter undertones, like droplets of whiskey and a woodsy cologne that smelt divinely like  _ Tony.  _

Across his skin he can still feel the licking of the sewing tape, taking his measurements with his dyed-red legs dancing to and fro as the older gentlemen, William Bashers, withered fingers tickled across the most sensitive parts of his body. It was the most intimately Peter has ever been touched; caressed as his fingers kneaded the flesh on his hips to properly measure the width without allowing the tape to go lax from between his fingers. And yet, it wasn’t who he wanted to touch him.

Even with the knowledge sex was the only beneficial thing Peter would be gaining from this relationship, he still wanted to explore the terrains of Tony Stark. If sex was the only possible way for him to get to know the man, then so be it. He was determined to figure him out.  _ Craved _ to have that intimate knowledge of someone when, his entire life, he’s deprived himself of even the simplest connection. 

He was dizzy from the new set of rules and the event of being measured when dressed in nothing more than his thin pair of boxers provided at the compound yesterday- now stained a pinkish red from the wine incident. He knew the measurements just taken would be all wrong- just a few inches off, considering how grossly bloated he was from eating the ridiculously fancy fish dinner they were served despite telling Helena he wasn’t hungry. 

_ You will sit at this table until your dinner is done,  _ she’d said, and it made Peter wonder how many times she’s fed that exact line to Tony. 

It was only after William left, and Peter was preparing to put back on his soiled pants given he had nothing more to wear and traipsing around in just his under-clothes was hardly appropriate, even in the comfort of his own room, when there was a soft knock on his door followed by the paper being carefully slid beneath. 

When Peter opened the door just as quickly as his mind registered what was happening, warm paper held safely between his pointer finger and thumb, nobody was out there. And the strangest thing yet? His spidey-senses hadn’t picked up on a single noise. 

The list reeked of Tony; held his scent in the woven material of the paper in a way that was just as claiming as the particles that held the very paper together. Wondering who sent it was stupid- finding who brought it would just leave him with more questions so, like was expected of him, Peter sat down on the bed and read the revised version of their rules- now shrunken down to a single paper. 

_ In continuation of our previous discussion, I have presented here a few additional rules, paired with ones previously discussed, and a more detailed list of repercussions given you break a rule.  _ The top of the note read, with a cheesy drawn smiley face in the upper right hand corner that had, reluctantly, made Peter crack a smile. He tried imagining Tony drawing it, yet his mind drew up.. Nothing. 

_ Punishments will be introduced and implemented as our relationship progresses. The severity of the punishment increases with each broken rule, ranking from mild to severe. Mild punishments include; suspended phone privileges, no allowance for a week, monitored ankle bracelet and no leaving the compound at all. To discuss the more severe rankings, come to my office when you’re free or simply wait until tomorrow morning when we have an agreed meeting scheduled. I look forward to it, Peter. _

It made him  _ nervous  _ and sick to think about what possibly could entail a severe punishment, given how ridiculous the mild ones were. He was being held captive; distanced from the world and his family to be cradled beneath Tony’s decrepit wing. How was he to live, be  _ Spider-Man,  _ if he was going to be watched so closely? Studied and  _ expected  _ to fail?

Meeting Tony tonight, in his sodden clothes with his boxers sticking to his thighs- was a  _ hard  _ no. But waiting until tomorrow, where his imagination and anxiety would conspire together and create ridiculous possibilities of exactly what Tony has in mind, also didn’t seem like fun. He didn’t even have his phone to just call May and have her bring him some clothes- which reminds him of the fact that he doesn’t have a phone.

They must have snatched it yesterday when they were snatching him and in the struggle and the sudden transition from being free, to being a  _ prisoner,  _ Peter never had time to notice. Given how big of a control freak Tony obviously was, Peter didn’t doubt that he took his phone and was holding it from ransom. He could only imagine what distasteful things Tony were bound to demand, though. 

And then he remembers the only person in this entire compound who could possibly help him without being under some human-obligation to tuck tail and run back to Tony to inform him of Peter’s requests. 

Only problem is, he doesn’t know how to talk to her. 

He sits up on his bed, leaving his crumpled and over-read paper on his pillow, and tips his head back to gaze up at the ceiling like he expects to see her curled up in the corner of the ceiling, hanging like the grudge. “F-Friday?” he asks, timid and soft- afraid if he spoke any louder someone may just hear him.

“You do not have to whisper, Peter, nobody can hear you. Mr. Stark designed each room with sound-proof walls. You could scream, and nobody will hear you.” she said, and he knew she was trying to be helpful and informative but, coming from a literal invisible robot incapable of expressing emotion which leaves her voice monotone and creepily steady, wasn’t exactly comforting. 

“Oh, right, sorry,” he blushes and scratches the back of his neck, not catching on to the fact that he was apologizing to someone who wasn’t actually there; yet he can feel her humming around him, a near tangible feeling of a woman’s presence. She greets him with the warmth of an aunt; hovering with a comforting security while somehow not smothering despite her filling every crevice of this room. He imagines he can reach out and  _ grab _ her if he just tries. “I-I was just wondering if there was any way I could order clothing. I don-”

“Would you like me to inform Mr. Stark that you’re requesting an outfit change?” she interrupts him, and Peter’s eyes widen in alarm. 

“No, no! There’s no need to do that!” The last person he wanted to know was Tony. He didn’t want to prove himself dependent on the man after not even a single day passing between their initial meeting. He didn’t want to be so deeply in debt to Tony that he owes much more to the man than just his freedom- his  _ life.  _

Silence. 

He didn’t think it was possible to feel  _ anything  _ for Friday, given her lack of- well, physical form, but he feels betrayed. He  _ knows _ she ran to Tony, informed the man of Peter’s damsel in distress plea and it makes him feel pathetic. He can’t even change his damn clothes without calling Mr. Egotistical for help. 

Scowling, Peter falls back on his bed and glares up at the ceiling- wondering, and not for the first time that day, where the fuck he went wrong in his life to be treated like this. To have _this_ become his life. Last week he saved a woman from being mugged by a group of drunk assholes looking for a little fun. He dedicated his free time (which wasn’t much, albeit, but still something) to helping out at the homeless shelter with May on the weekends- which was a selfish sort of task on his part because it taught him how to cook. He risked his life day in and day out to save _strangers_ and the world's thanks was _this? This_ _life?_

He wasn’t even deserving of a man who could potentially love him? 

He was too scared to leave his own bedroom for fucks sake. He felt like Rapunzel, locked away in a tower that was now apparently his, too, while being told it was for his own  _ good.  _ The world was dangerous and dark and cold and the security found in Tony’s open arms should be  _ enough _ for him. He was Iron-Man, protector of the people. Savior of the world.  _ Captain  _ of the Avengers, despite Peter not seeing a lick of proof any of them actually exist. 

Then again, he’s ventured only in the rooms instructed of him. Tony probably ordered them to stay away, to hide from his young new toy because Peter wasn’t worthy to meet them. To see which Avenger belonged to which shadow lurking around here, somewhere, just out of his line of sight but  _ present.  _

It wasn’t like he was in the mood to deal with meeting all of his childhood heroes when his very life was crumbling down around him, anyway. 

_ Thanks a lot, fate.  _

“Mr. Stark is sending down a pair of pajamas for you. He requests your presence once you’re dressed.”

~~~

Peter stands before the glass wall that reflects his pale image, terrifying even himself with how ghastly and horrible he looks with his wet hair sticking to his forehead. His clothes were far too large; making him look like a wet dog  _ drowning  _ in puddles of inky black pools with depthless waves that swallowed him with every movement forward. 

Grumbling, he shoves the sleeve back up his arm so it bunches at his elbows and he stares intensely at the back of the man who frustrates him so immensely, yet he truly knows nothing about. Tony used to be a part boy; had his image plastered across hundreds of magazines with scandals involving hundreds of women, and sometimes men, and feeding into the presumptuous but accurate notion of Tony being an out of control lunatic with far too much money, time, and knowledge. 

He has a vast collection of wealth, some inherited but most, if not all now, earned and while it was true that, before, Tony’s life was free to be splattered and smeared across the headlines- drudging his name through the mud while hiding behind the pretense that Tony was a spoiled, self centered, ego-fueled maniac who was far too dangerous for this world, that all rapidly changed when he donned the ironman suit. Suddenly, he became more. Earned the title of hero; protector. 

He represented change, and hope, and growth. The dying world clung to the image of a man who posed as a phoenix rising from the ashes, promising  _ more  _ from his chapped lips, and it was after he returned from his public kidnapping and came out as IromMan, that everything changed. 

His life was no longer displayed on entertainment weekly with various angles of his ass cropped into the frame of each photo. His nightly conquests were still a regular occurrence, save for the brief but hot fling between him and Pepper Potts Peter remembers reading about when he was sixteen in a news article, they were no longer publicly displayed. 

Suddenly, but not completely, Tony’s image was recreated. The bad was filtered out, and the good was honed in on. Peter knew not who the man truly was, but as he stands outside his lab now, silent as can be with his bare feet sticking to the chilled tile- and he studies the set of the man's shoulders, a purposeful hunch drawing them taut, he sees not the hero the world represents, or the merchant of death he used to be- but a man so isolated and withdrawn from the world that desolation was a crisp, impenetrable aura around his body. 

It made Peter ache to understand him more. 

Unsure of how to approach the door that appears to have no handle, Peter steps to it and as if there were automatic sensors, the doors slid open for him with a silent  _ hiss  _ as the filtered, oxygenated room was exposed to the contaminated air surrounding Peter. He doesn’t question how Tony knew he was here, or how the door opened- figuring it was Friday who he can feel lurking. 

In awed-amazement, he twirls around the lab once- twice, then on the third time he pauses to run a finger across the steel desk that even feels  _ expensive.  _ Every workbench is filled with some chaotic experiment, blueprints rolled across desktops and holo screens flickering to life all around them to cast blue-lights across Peter’s skin. The equipment is state of the art, some never even having been brought to the public's attention, he’s sure, and it’s more than he’s ever seen, ever even hoped to dream for.

Abandoned pieces of IronMan gear lay strewn around carelessly, a chest plate propped against the desk Tony currently sat at and directly across from Peter, on a metal stand, is a mask with the face plate peeled back to reveal the impossibly blank interior. 

It’s all too much to take in. Peter wants to rush forward and touch everything, to use the crystal beakers that probably cost more than his entire high school did and he wants to feel like a  _ real  _ scientist. Somehow, everything he’s ever done before now in regards to anything scientific, feels like child's play when he stands right here, right now. All this equipment, all of this magnificient  _ equipment,  _ and he was sure he couldn’t even use half of it without fucking up somehow. 

“Neat, huh?” Tony asks, and he’s clearly gloating as he spins around in his chair to face Peter, his feet planted firmly on the ground with his arms folded over his chest. He looks proud. 

_ Peter wouldn’t exactly use the word neat, but... _

“It’s…” Peter wants to gush; wants to admit that the Electron Microscope in the corner of the room was the same edition he asked his high school for three years to buy because it would better their students learning experiences when it was really just out of selfish reasonings because, beneath that scope, his mutatued cells would be  _ fucking amazing  _ to study with so much more clarity and in-depth dissection between each clump of tissue. But he didn’t want to seem like some fan-girl who was gushing over equipment he probably didn’t know how to use just to get Tony to pay attention to him. “Nice, yeah.”

Tony licks his bottom lip, a movement so fast as his tongue darts out and flicks across the pink flesh before retreating back into his mouth, and Peter finds himself fixated on that specific point of Tony’s body for three solid seconds before he remembers his manners and looks away, blushing. “Did you get my note?” Tony asks, jumping straight to the point. “And I’m glad to see you showered. Didn’t really have much to offer you wardrobe wise, so I grabbed some of my old pajamas.”

The tags were still on these  _ black _ pajamas, but Peter knew better than to call Tony out. “I did,” he nods, hand smoothing down the button up shirt that was cotton this time, and not silk. “I read over it before I showered- and, ur, thank you for the- urm, the clothes. I told Friday not to bother you but she didn’t exactly listen.”

Tony scoffs and waves a hand in Peter’s direction. “Hardly a bother to me. I had Helena fetch them.”

Which explains why it was the out of breath older woman knocking on his bedroom door fifteen minutes after Friday informed him Tony was sending down clothing, but Peter thought maybe Tony had chosen the outfit. It made him feel… warm, inside. To wear something directly approved by the man. 

But, apparently not. “Oh,” disappointment flares hot in his chest, “regardless, I appreciate it. Mr. Bashers took my measurements this evening and he said he will be back next week with clo-”

“Your clothes will be delivered in the morning,” Tony cuts him off to say, spinning back around in his chair to continue working on whatever it was he was doing before. 

“Sir?” Peter implores, confused. “I-I’m sorry, I just thought that he said next week. Perhaps I misunderstood him.”

“You misunderstood nothing. It was William who misunderstood  _ me.”  _ The enunciation Tony puts on ‘me’, paired with a pair of pliers slamming down on the desk, makes Peter jump. “I told him if he would like to keep his job, he will work through the night to get me what I want. Right now, a properly dressed..  _ Fiance  _ is in my best interest. Imagine the impression it’ll leave on the staff if I let you run around in pajamas all day.” his shudder is evident, if not a little mock and played up.

He turns to Peter and leans in conspiratorially, eyebrows raised. “Imagine the scandals.”

Peter isn’t sure if he’s supposed to laugh, or cry, or both- so he settles on a smile that falls into a grimace and looks down at himself. He did look pretty crap in pajamas, black especially given it wasn’t his color. He just hated he had to put on an appearance now. “Friday said you needed to speak with me?”

“Ah, correct,” Tony stands this time, clapping his hands together in a way reminiscent to a secluded boom of thunder, and the advancement he makes on Peter is almost predatory- makes his heartbeat spike to dangerously high terrains until Tony slides past him, teasingly brushing his hip against Peter’s, and grabs a tablet off the desk. “I have a few questions regarding your own personal kinks and sexaul history. It’s to my understanding you were subjected to regular screenings at your local clinic, but I hope you don’t take it personal if I have my own doctor give a follow up. You can never be too careful, right?”

The blue light from the tablet illuminates Tony’s face, hollows out his cheeks and makes his eye sockets look like depthless black pits. So many things come to mind, assurances that no, he didn't mind- lies that there were reasonable enough reasons to assume he was anything but clean. But instead, he feels the truth lick up his throat like hot, bitter acid. “I-I don’t have any kinks, sir.” Peter admits, warming cheeks hidden as he tucks his chin against his chest and stares down at his bare feet- a common habit by now. “Or any sex history.”

Tony scoffs at that, clearly unbelieving of this, and then he must have looked at Peter- saw the truth in the way his body folds in on itself as if he can shrink himself out of existence, because he emits a gasp so low it sounded like a breath from an ant to Peter’s heightened ears. “Nothing?” Tony asks, “you don’t even… choke the chicken in your free time? You’ve done  _ nothing?”  _ his laugh is incredulous and when Peter glances up, hot with shame, he finds Tony pacing with his hand running through his hair. “So, what- you’re a virgin? How-How the  _ fuck  _ do you deal with arousal then, hmm? You’re eighteen for god sake.”

He knew Tony wasn’t laughing at him, and rather his situation, but he still didn’t like it. The  _ feeling  _ of being pried apart by eyes and ears who wouldn’t be entirely understanding in why he was the way he was. Hidden and reserved. Peter’s always been… hesitant to openly accept intimacy and because of that, relationships were never a focal point in his life. He had his friends, and May, and that was it. 

The closest thing he ever came to having a girlfriend was Liz, who he asked to homecoming when he was fifteen. Even then, it had been as friends. And as they tucked in close to each other with the slow song setting a low, gently intimate atmosphere- her breasts gliding across Peter’s chest, her nipples poking through her dress to dig like claws down his sensitive body, he hadn’t been aroused. He wasn’t… normal. He felt too much, yet too little.

And having Tony find humor in that, hurt. “I don’t,” he mumbles, ashamed. Which was something he never was. He was usually so self-assured and poised, yet before Tony he’s reduced to a blushing little kid with no distinctive personality or opinion. He doesn’t have a backbone and he hates it. 

Tony snorts, thinking Peter was joking- yanking his leg, but then he pauses for a moment and just takes in the sight of Peter. “You aren’t kidding?” Peter shakes his head. He doesn't like being studied so intensely. “Fuck- of  _ course  _ they’d pair me with the fucking prudish Virgin Mary. Tell me, do you even know what a dick is? Or were you too scared to look at them?” 

Peter frowns and his eyebrows furrow. “I-I know what a penis is. I also know how to please you. Just because I-I’ve never had sex doesn’t mean I don’t undertand basic human desire.”

Even now, Peter can feel how drawn to Tony his body is and it’s a completely foreign reaction brought on by a flood of endorphins and adrenaline. Tony is posing him with something he's never faced before; new terrains and possibilities. He can command Peter’s pulse to react and increase with a single word, and yet disgust is his main reaction as he regards the boy. 

“I’d much rather not have my dick bitten off on our wedding night, so forgive me for not trusting you,” Tony scoffs, jabbing at Peter’s already tattered heart and with slow, controlled breathing- Peter somehow refrains from crying. “For the next few weeks, I want you to experiment. We can’t do anything in regards to moving forward if you can’t even properly consummate our marriage.”

Peter suddenly feels disgusted with himself, too. 

“Of course, sir. Is there anything you want me to specifically focus on? Or just pleasure in general?”

It’s not like he never got urges. He was just never driven towards satisfying them. When he would wake up with morning wood, he would immediately take a cold shower and think of uncle Ben in a speedo. After the spiderbite, his hormones increased for a solid month after and if anything pulsed across his skin he was immediately aroused, yet he thought having self control would later please his partner so he never scratched that itch. He learned to ignore it; control it. 

He learned to ignore his own wants, his own needs and desires, because he knew when the time came, they would be pushed to the back burner anyway. His arousal wasn’t to take precedence. Tony’s was. And that’s what Peter has spent his entire life studying. The human body. 

He didn’t blame Tony for not believing he could satisfy him, though. “What I want from you, is your complete submission. You can not offer yourself fully to me if you do not understand your body or the way it responds to intimacy.” Tony walks around Peter again to approach his previously abandoned desk. He pushes everything aside and turns around, the muscles on his forearms flexing as he pulls himself up and plants his butt firmly on the flat surface; his long, obviously fit legs kicking back and forth in a childishly endearing way. “Learn what you like and dislike-  _ then  _ we will talk.”

Peter didn’t like this agreement at all- the idea of being locked away in his room until he could please himself in the way he was always intended to please Tony. He didn’t think he could cup himself with the same urgency, with the same excitement. Will he even know what his body wants, given how long he’s ignored it? “So- I’m exiled to my room to.. what? Fuck myself into oblivion? Until when, exactly?”

Tony’s eyes darken, and Peter’s immediate reaction is to bite his bottom lip because, yep- shouldn’t have said  _ that.  _ “Put so crudely, Mr. Parker, yes.” Tony’s smile is fauxly sweet, with eye crinkles and flashed teeth. “And I thought I made myself clear-  _ until  _ you understand your body. That may take until our wedding day, which is to take place a month from today.”

Peter splutters. “A-A month?” when he thought of getting married, it was a drawn out engagement with love and romance and the discovery of each other- not something so rushed and so obviously forced that half of the people attending would have more chemistry with Tony than Peter did. “W-Why so soon, sir?I thought I was on a probation period for a month, until you decided if you want to keep me or not.”

“You’re not a dog, Peter, have a little dignity. If you are to be my husband, I expect you to carry yourself with more self-assurance regalness.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I’m just a little surprised, that’s all. I-I didn’t expect to be married so quickly.”

“Well, you are-  _ we  _ are, and I want to hear nothing more on the topic. Do not make me regret forfeiting the probation month.” Tony’s nostrils flare, and Peter’s heart skips a beat, fear clashing with a stale sort of excitement. He couldn’t even be properly excited over the fact that, in a month, he would be married because he knew Tony didn’t want it. He didn’t want  _ Peter.  _ It was obvious. 

“I- as you wish, sir. Sorry to disappoint you.” which, that was the most truthful thing Peter has spoken all evening. The one thing he hates the most about himself right now is how much he has disappointed Tony in such a short span of time. He doesn’t understand how, or why, Tony has chosen to Marry him when Peter clearly isn’t the right match for him- as much as Peter wishes that to not be true. 

With a hand flicked towards the door in a dismissive gesture, translating Tony’s irritation and boredom, Tony returns his attention to his tablet. “It’s probably best you go to bed. Do not leave your room until Helena comes up to get you.”

It was a nice way of saying Tony didn’t want to be bothered with him anymore, and Peter bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying anything he may regret even if he feels like arguing the subject further. He wasn’t owed an explanation- he didn’t deserve even the smallest opinion on the matter. He was to swallow his pride and be grateful to even be accepted so quickly despite how much wrong he’s done. How much he clearly turns Tony off. 

Nodding, he spins around and slowly walks towards the door- fully intending to leave until, apparently, his mind decides on something entirely different. Something was nagging at him over the entire thing. Not the rushed wedding, per say, but how upset Tony was over Peter being a virgin. He thought he would be ecstatic to  _ ruin  _ the boy's innocence. To taint him with only his tongue.

“I did it for you, you know- or, rather, not you specifically. But I wanted to save myself for my- urm, partner? I-May always told me it was silly but I didn’t want to be impure. I wanted to be everything you could ever want.” he shrugs, embarrassed, and for the faintest second he swears he sees the flicker of respect on Tony’s face. 

“You should have listened to May.”

  
  



	4. His heart aches for May.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay- before you begin, I am NOT happy with this chapter at all and I’m only posting it for filler purposes. I had an entirely different scene planned out, the chapter completed, and my beta convinced me it was too early to introduce the drama I intended so— I compromised and went with this. The beginning half of this chapter is written a little differently, too. She helped me go back and forth writing it and I’m not at all liking the way our two very different and obviously distinctive writing styles clash- but I can’t leave you guys hanging any longer. 
> 
> The second half is written by muah, and while it’s not what I wanted it’s what I have. I promise it will get better next chapter and, although I love you my little Lauren (my wonderful Beta) I will no longer let her dabble in the progression of my creative routes or collaborate with me unless we can find a way to meld ourselves together to create beautiful symmetry. 
> 
> On another note, I have SO much planned. 
> 
> The scrapped chapter I have is 5k words of pure drama with a bit of (mild) fluff from an unexpected character. I wanted to introduce Wanda and have Peter believe her to be a foe, but he rather finds an unlikely Allie. If you’re interested in reading the little scene I have there, let me know and I may include it as an authors note or something!! I was a bit proud of it. ((:
> 
> Anyway, on with the show!! Enjoy.

The days following Peter’s arrival were nothing special. He stayed locked up in his room, day in and day out, watching as night fell and morning rose perched at the end of his bed in his cold, empty room with warmth so absent it stemmed far beyond just a lack of heat but rather a lack of human connection. He’s yet to be granted phone privileges, and he’s heard nothing from May or his friends. Helena was the only friendly face he’s seen as she filters in and out of the scene, making his bed and tidying his room while also delivering his meals and clothes. 

His closet door is open now, rows of untouched clothing visible with imaginary dust accumulating on the shoulders and sleeves. Peter was to change daily, yet nobody but his mirror and Helena saw his outfits. He wasn’t allowed to leave his bedroom- Tony made that _clear._ Helena tried to offer him as much comfort and company as she could, but Peter loathed it. He wanted to remain strong enough not to accept her pity. 

No matter how nice it felt. 

It wasn’t until his fifth night here, trapped in his own self-made solitude on the brink of insanity, that he got courageous enough to explore his floor of the tower. It wasn’t a direct disobedience to Tony’s command, exactly. He was exiled to his room to explore himself- and he figured what better way to get to know himself than to explore who he was now intended to be? To merge past, present and future so seamlessly. 

There were so many unused rooms just on this floor, and Peter begins to wonder if Tony really was embarrassed or ashamed of their pairing- considering how secluded he’s made Peter. There were at least ten rooms identical to his own, three fully furnished offices and- the most interesting, a small den that, when approached, opened up into a small little personalized library with shelves and shelves filled with books. The lone, white, overstuffed chair in the corner of the room screams Peter’s name, and he makes a mental map back to this room, knowing the worlds trapped in the spines of these books would be his only company for the next few weeks. 

He still couldn’t bring himself to touch himself. He got a hand down his pants, felt the soft prickle of his pubic hair scratch across the palm of his hand, then he dissolved into a full fledged panic attack and abandoned his efforts. 

The furthest he’s gotten was a soft erection after watching Tony, what appeared to be Captain America, and a few new recruits run drills in the field visible from Peter’s window. He’s always thought of Tony as an attractive man- but now, given the direct permission to admire and explore the terrains of their partnership, he could admire and be completely enamored by the man’s beauty. It was a justified stalking session. 

Hard muscles met tan flesh, and warm brown eyes with crows feet completely drew the ensemble together with Tony’s sweat dampened hair glued to his forehead with his product loose and breaking the bonds of his carefully tousled style. He was a gorgeous man, and Peter’s body seemed to appreciate the sight of Tony, all hard and sweaty, glistening in the sun with a cinder block balanced precariously on his shoulder from sheer core balance.

He’s spoken to the man only a handful of times, most unpleasant exchanges, and he already misses the sound of his voice. Part of him wishes to be requested for dinner- another part of him wants to swallow his pride and submit to his submissive side and just crawl back to Tony on all fours and beg for the man's guidance because _Peter can’t do this alone._

_Tony can’t help him either, apparently._

One thing that’s made abundantly clear is Tony’s busy schedule. Helena tells him everyday of Tony’s plans, and he knows she does it just to make Peter feel included in the loop but it just _hurts_ to be at the end of the telephone game. Tony didn’t care if Peter knew what his plans were- _hell,_ he probably didn’t care about the boy at all. 

In and out, in and out- all hours of the night footsteps trekked to and fro above Peter’s head, some thundering and some timid, while others were more calculated and timed precisely. He knows, some deep part of him, that it was the Avenger’s above him, but nobody will confirm that for him and he’s too big of a coward to explore beyond his floor. 

He’s not even that comfortable with the thought of leaving his room, let alone evading the personal and private space of the World’s mightiest heroes. 

_He wonders if they know about him._

Tony was, inside or outside of this building, obviously the leader here, that’s one thing that was made abundantly clear. Not just because of the fact that it _was_ his tower; but Tony was evident in the way everyone carried themselves. His presence was so large, so daunting, it clung to people’s auras and stuck with them no matter where they traveled. It was a persuasive guidance, Peter noticed. Some appeared just as powerful as Tony, yet in the man’s presence they were stifled like a suffocated fire. 

_Tony_ was the man in charge, the leader. He dominated everyone, it seems, and it fascinates Peter how the pitch in people’s voice lowers and highers when speaking to the man. (He listens often.) How the recruits, even with Captain America another notable presence instructing their movements- only ever divoted in the direction Tony suggested. _He was inarguably in control._

It made Peter understand his stubbornness a bit, maybe. Definitely his arrogance.

It also made him have a newfound respect for Tony, one he was blind to before because of ignorance. To instruct and direct so many people has to be a _lot_ of pressure, yet Tony does it effortlessly _daily._ He shoulders the weight of so much and Peter is surprised he’s not more corroded by the world; by the people, than he currently is. 

Being Spider-Man, a small city slinger with mediocre missions felt like too much for Peter. And yet there sat Tony, instructing the entire world without lifting a finger. 

He was in awe of him even more so now, even with feeling smothered by the man and locked away like a modern day Rapunzel. He was beyond antsy and needed to do something- _anything_ to entertain himself but asking permission for such a task was way more intimidating a task than he cared to admit. 

So, he’d much rather just wither away in his room than face Tony alone _again,_ knowing the man now knows his most intimate truths. The time has given him plenty of opportunities to reflect on himself, his desires, and his mistakes. Not that he’s confronted any or came up with any valid answers or solutions- but he still addressed they existed which was _progress._

Today was day Eight, little more than a week of being ‘captured’, the terminology Peter has chosen to fit his narrative, and he’s dressed for the purpose of a public appearance yet he knows his feet will never grace the sidewalk outside. He was summoned for dinner, something that hasn’t happened since the dreaded night all those days ago, and his nerves shine through as he twists and shifts in his chair; pulling and tugging at the sleeves of his sweater to hide his hands, then pushing them up to bunch at his elbows to better expose his pale arms. 

It was a toxic cycle none of the wait-staff cared to break or comfort, so Peter kept at it, with his big toe tapping at the solid floor beneath his feet and his hands simultaneously smoothing across the silverware when he wasn’t obsessing over his sleeves. He didn’t know the nature of this meeting, but he assumed it wasn’t anything good considering Tony hasn’t even acknowledged his presence since exiling him. 

Peter felt like a fucking ward, not a husband. Not that history could decipher a difference between the two, that is. Peter wasn’t sure he would either, anyway. 

Food is laid out before him, an entire feast compared to his trays Helena brought him, and he can feel the steam rising off of each dish; breath in the translucent trails of vaporized water and feel as the flavors exploded across his tongue in punches of savory gravy and buttery rolls. It smelt, and looked, more like a home cooked meal that Peter was accustomed to during Thanksgiving and Christmas, and not the typical richer palette meals Tony was accustomed to. 

Not that Peter was complaining. He was just terrified to discover what the occasion was. 

Instructed not to eat- to not even _peek_ at the Turkey carved into chunks of beautiful white meat, Peter feels even more tortured now than he has the past week. He’s been deprived of his required calorie intake and requesting way more food than a teenager his size could possibly eat would be a bit suspicious, so he’s just allowed himself to silently starve. His fast metabolism required he eat at least twenty thousand calories a day and, well- here, without giving up his identity? _That_ would be impossible. 

He imagines he can see his ribs even more prominently, now, too. Not that he wasn’t tiny before, because he was. He was just more leaner than anything.

When the double doors opened and Tony came strolling in, all casual and business like with his work-attire on but his tie pulled a notch or two looser, Peter immediately bowed his head, ever so submissive and obedient. “Hello, sir,” It seems Tony has come to an understanding and was allowing Peter to call him sir, even if it clearly bothered him. 

Tony flinched but didn’t acknowledge Peter and instead silently took his seat. The room picked up speed immediately, and the statued people previously surrounding Peter dethawed and moved towards their respectful positions. In a flurry of movements, both Peter’s and Tony’s plates were filled and the room was cleared of all people but them. 

The door closed with a finalizing _click._

Across from him, Tony cuts a piece of turkey more appropriate for a bite size and looks up at Peter with his fork extended in the air, almost expectant. “Well?” he asks, waving his fork before positioning it between his teeth and using his lips to drag the meat off the prongs- almost tantalizingly slow with his eyes locked on Peter. He chews thoughtfully before continuing. “I expected an update regarding your... _status._ How have you progressed?” _That’s_ what the meal was. To soften Peter up. 

To discuss Peter’s sexual drive and intimate familiarity with his body in such a cold, professional way ruined any and all hopes for him romanticizing their experience in any way. It desensitized him in a way; made him more accepting to the fact that Tony was using him for breeding purposes and nothing more. 

If only he could get that through his thick skull. 

Peter, suddenly too nervous to eat despite practically starving, pushes his serving of mashed potatoes around on his plate and intentionally ignores Tony’s gaze. “I can’t do it,” he whispers, figuring there was no point in lying because, eventually, Tony would figure it out one way or another. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Tony leans forward, fork clattering against his plate as he sets it down to give Peter his undivided attention. “Did you say you _can’t_ do it?” Peter nods, too embarrassed to say anything. Tony scoffs. “See, Peter- that, to me, sounds like an excuse. You’re avoiding it because you hope, what- I’ll change my mind? Cause I won’t.”

Humiliated for being so transparent, Peter bows his head further. He never thought about it like that but, yeah, he supposes that’s exactly what he’s doing, in a way. He’s terrified of intimacy because he’s ran away from it his entire life, tethering the two very distinctly different lines together to combine intimacy and romance. In his mind, he can’t have one without the other. 

He wasn’t _designed_ like that. 

So to attempt and _touch_ himself without being romantically inclined? He just.. Couldn’t. 

Peter shakes his head. “No, Sir. I-I can’t. I need help.”

Tony splutters on his wine- choking on his gulpful and maybe Peter could have proposed himself a little bit better. “H-Help?” Tony stutters, voice raspy. “Help like, what? Like encouragement?”

 _Well fuck._ Peter’s face burns hot with shame, but he nods nonetheless. “Y-Yes. I-I do-”

“You need me to tell you how to fuck yourself, hmm? Is that it?” Tony’s voice suddenly drops two notches lower, smooth and languid with a thrilling quality pulling Peter’s stomach knots loose. Unraveling him with a single sentence. 

Sudden and sharp, a bolt of an exotic sort of excitement sparks down Peter’s stomach and ceases in his groin. Clenching his thighs together, and biting his lip to combat the surprise moan, Peter lifts his head to look at Tony and finds the man is already staring at him. His eyes are dark; lids low with a pleasantly sensual smile curving his lips in a delicate bow. 

Oh- _Oh._ Peter liked _that._

“Words, Peter.”

He can’t fucking _talk_ when he’s forgotten how to _breath_ . “Yes.” it rushes from his mouth so quickly it’s almost mistaken for an audibly exhaled breath, and Peter fears Tony must have mistaken his confirmation for something else because nothing happens for a solid three seconds. Peter _can’t_ go through _that_ again- can’t admit to _needing_ Tony in that way. 

But then, with the elegance of a conformed, trained ballerina- Tony rises from his seat. Even across the table Peter still, as always, feels trapped beneath the man and it makes his head feel light, heady by the effects of the man despite words never being uttered. 

Unsure of what’s to be requested of him, Peter places both of his palms flat on the table, on either side of his plate, and bites his lip while waiting for further instruction. “You have no idea the things I would do to that mouth, Peter. The things I _want_ to do.”

In a rush, that lightheaded feeling intensifies and Peter feels like he’ll swoon if he doesn’t regain his balance quickly. “Why don’t you do it then, sir?” He’s boldened by that unhinged, dangerously delicious glint in Tony’s eye. Egging him on seemed to be the only logical thing to do, given Peter practically just served his virginity on a silver platter, but it felt so _fucking_ right and, for a _moment,_ Peter felt powerful. 

Like he could command the room if he just whispered a plea. 

Tony emits this noise- so low, like a groan, but it’s so much more throatier and it rattles through Peter’s stomach; vibrating through his body until his toes curl against the floor and he clenches his thighs together a little more tightly- trying to tame the sudden interest his cock has in the conversation after a 18 year long slumber. 

In a daring move, Peter lifts his eyes to find Tony’s and he _bites_ down on his lip even harder. Tony’s just as entrapped in the moment as Peter is, it seems. Just as fazed. “You don’t know what you’re ask-”

A knock on the door cuts Tony off, and before Peter can hear the rest of the man’s thought a woman shuffles in- pencil skirt restricting her movements and making her footsteps short but no less purposeful as she approaches Tony with pure intent.

Peter’s on the verge of panting, arousal flooding his body with this foregin warmth that coats him from head to toe. His pants are noticeably tighter, if only a little, and it amazes him how a simple _sentence_ managed to command such a reaction from him. To hear something so dirty fall from Tony’s lips was clearly going to be his undoing. 

Embarrassed to have been caught in this precise predicament, Peter crosses his legs and folds his hands in his lap- attempting to hide the _very_ mild situation in his pants without drawing any sort of attention to himself while the two mumble heated together at the head of the table, Peter intentionally not eavesdropping. 

He falsely believed the moment they just shared was _something,_ and he doesn’t exactly know what he expected to happen when the pencil-skirt woman left the room. But when Tony turns on him, so quick, so aggressive, Peter is knocked mute with his entire body tensing and preparing for the wrath that was sure to follow the squint of Tony’s eyes- frustration drawing his mouth into a tight line.

“You’re pathetic if you can’t figure out how to get yourself off,” Tony spits, and that _definitely_ wasn’t what Peter expected. He visibly shrinks back at the verbal attack, not justifying it enough to deny or defend himself. He thought that Tony had shown some compassion- some _kindness._

Maybe it was just an overlap in his judgement. The problem obviously wasn’t him- but _maybe?_

Tony laughs and shakes his head, fingers running through his bristled hair and fanning it out so he mirrors a pissed off peacock. “I can’t believe, out of all the fucking people on this planet, I was paired with a kid who screams Daddy issues and can’t even fuck himself.” Tony blows out a frustrated breath, and to Peter’s hot, sensitive ears- burning with humiliation, it sounds like a hurricane pounding against his eardrums. 

Peter doesn’t feel the need to correct him on the whole Daddy issue front because, well, of course he knew it to be a valid issue in his life. Losing his father at such a young age, then Ben- it really fucked him up mentally and having a partner who was so much older than him didn’t help. But was it so wrong to seek guidance from the man he was offering his entire life over to? To ask for _help?_ Tony- he thought Tony would be _proud_ Peter was showing an effort. 

“What? You have nothing to say to that? No argument? No defense?” The anger rises in Tony’s voice, and Peter’s heels dig into the edge of his chair as his arms wrap tightly around his legs. He digs his face into his knees, his entire body shivering for some unknown reason. “Having some fucking self respect, Peter.”

He doesn’t know what set Tony off, or if he did or said something wrong. He tries to reflect on their entire conversation, and maybe he was too bold- or not bold enough. Did Tony want him to bat his eyelashes? To bite his lip and flaunt his ass? Peter received some lacy panties in his newest shipment of clothes. Maybe Tony expected him to present himself in nothing but the provocative, revealing clothing nightly. To look like the woman in the pencil skirt and, although Peter has never worn makeup, he wasn’t against exploring it. 

A glass shattering against the wall draws Peter from his thoughts, and he jumps out of his seat- heart racing and his instincts clawing to the surface after being suppressed down beneath his submission and fear. “I-I’m sorry.” to prove how pathetic he was, tears swell fat and heavy in his eyes and obscure his vision, offering him a kaleidoscope view as Tony tilts this way and that.

He feels nothing like the man Spider-Man carved him into. He feels like the teenagers Flash would belittle and shove in his locker.

Tony is standing, too, hands braced on the table and teeth clenched with anger dominating his face. “Do you ever stop fucking apologizing?” he demands sharply, voice rising three pitches but miraculously not enough to attract unwanted attention beyond this room and Peter shrinks back, drawing closer to the wall and further away from Tony. He’s never been able to handle conflict that well, especially with an authoritative figure. 

Footsteps that sound distinctly remimicinset to secluded booms of thunder approach Peter with urgency, and he expects to be grabbed and thrown around- to be slapped into submission until he stops apologizing and just… quits talking altogether. But Tony stops inches away from Peter, breathing heavily through his nose with tremors visible as they race down his fingers and Peter genuinely doesn’t understand _what_ he did wrong. 

“I’ll work on it sir,” and he means it, standing bold and unwavering before Tony, attempting to appear strong and unafraid even with tears scratching down his cheeks. He’ll work on becoming the perfect partner for Tony, even if it means breaking himself in the process. 

Tony looks just as defeated as Peter feels. His shoulders hunch forward and he pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. A clear sign of giving in- of all fight leaving his body. “Get out of my fuck out of my face, Peter, before I do soemtning we both regret.”

A hand waved towards the door grants him a clean escape, and Peter takes it without a second thought- vision blurry and heart racing with his entire body trembling but he’s refusing to allow his tears to fall completely until in the safety of his own room. 

He passes Helena on his retreat, and her face scrunches in concern but Peter shakes his head no because he knows he won’t be able to hold back the sob pounding at his chest if he accepts the hug she would no doubt offer. 

His heart aches for _May._

\---

Peter doesn’t see Tony again for the rest of that week, but he can certainly feel him. It’s a warm buzz crawling along his skin, stronger whenever he knows Tony gets too close; when he can hear the man pause floors above Peter’s room and just stand there, unmoving, for a few solid seconds like he, too, can sense Peter. _Feel_ him as prominently as a broken heart. 

He’s painfully aware of Tony and everything he does- his body on high alert for any sign of the man and he knows it’s pathetic, just like Tony said. That he needs to move beyond his irrational wants, his irrational desires, and work out a way to please Tony when he can’t even please himself. 

It’s sheer determination that keeps him from storming through the halls, all the way up to Tony’s floor, and begging the man for his mercy. For his help. Peter- he is flawed in a way Tony was thriving in and maybe- _maybe_ Tony can help him enough to benefit both of them. Peter doesn’t understand exactly where his mental block stems from, or why it’s so stubbornly staying locked in place, but history has proven his every effort has been futile at best. 

He’s just so… frustrated. 

The night after their incident, Peter had actually considered leaving. Running was possibly the worst thing he could do. It goes against everything he’s been taught; every submissively obedient trait pounded into his skull, but the thought of freedom was so intoxicating he’d gotten as far as opening his window- fully aware Tony would be notified, but then his stomach sank with the realization of never seeing Tony again, or May and his friends. He would constantly be on the run and that.. That wasn’t a life. 

Tony could offer him a life, however suffocated it would be. 

On the darker days, when he can’t hear Tony for hours and the silence is deafening and his nail beds picked so horribly even his accelerated healing took a few minutes to correct the bloody mess Peter’s made around his nails, he humors himself with the idea that it’s all just a bad dream and he’ll eventually wake up without the buzz or Tony. 

But, as the days turn into weeks and they pass at the same slow pace, it isn’t humorous anymore- _not one fucking bit._

In fact, Peter is certain sanity has taken back door precedence to the insanity silence has had instilled in him. He no longer knows if his voice works, or if his fingers can write a proper sentence without shaking around the writing device. 

He went from working a full time job while attending college and occupying his freetime by swinging around as spiderman- and to have that change so suddenly and drastically? It wasn’t an easy transition and he was convinced Tony was torturing him. Someone has to have noticed Spider-man’s absence and, soon enough, they would correlate Peter’s disappearance with their friendly neighboorhood spider. 

Tony must have made the connection and was just enjoying dictating Peter’s own personal hell. 

A hell where, most nights Peter doesn’t sleep. Life feels all screwed up and wrong and the only time Peter can anchor himself to a moment is when he feels that restless buzz greet him like an old companion; hovering for the entire night to offer him some sort of company as it jabs and picks at him, attempting to pry beneath his surface and see more of who he is. To discover his uncharted terrains. 

He knows the solution to this entire thing lies in an acceptance of his absent sex drive and a rekindling to the fire in his loins. But progressing beyond a quick stroke or some muffled moans as he rocks his hips into his pillow, insistent and restless, with Tony’s face painted across his eyelids like a hauntingly beautiful canvas meant to be hung in an art gallery- just doesn’t seem possible. 

It was after the third thrust against his pillow, with his cock swelling to a decent half-length, that nausea and panic quickly consumed him and he was left dry heaving into the small trash can on the side of his bed. 

He felt so hopeless and broken. 

An entire two weeks pass, leaving only one until the wedding, before Peter finally musters enough courage to speak to Tony. He informs Friday as much, as he dresses in his tightest pair of jeans and pulls the most suggestive top he can find- a loose fitting tank top that somehow frames his body while not pulling any attention away from his muscular arms. 

Peter knew he wasn’t unattractive. After the spider bite, he filled in in all the right ways and he has always prided himself on his physical build. He had abs, and a soft face that translated an open honesty and kind natured heart that betrayed the experience hardening his eyes. He was all the right trauma trapped inside a single body and it, somehow, worked out in his favor enough to make him just the right amount of attractive without breaching the Tony (God) levels. 

He expects an answer from the AI immediately, but instead he is greeted by an invisible, vicious wave that hits him through the buzz generated by Tony’s presence and his spine straightens on it’s own accord as excitement and nerves resume the twirled dance up his spine- punching and kicking as they ascend. 

Tony was so _close_ , but Peter was prepared. He could do this. 

It’s a wonder how he ever managed as Spider-Man and convinced the entire City he was a proper depiction of strong and fearless. 

Appearing far more courageous than he truly feels, and losing his entire plan of attack as he leaves his bedroom- every step forward drawing his mind more and more blank until he’s left standing in the elevator with the intent to take down the entire City, but confused on where exactly to begin. 

When the elevator doors open, he instantly tenses up in preparation- never having been on _Tony’s_ floor of the tower, much less _without_ his permission. He just hoped Friday notified Tony of Peter’s intentions. 

It never occurred to him he wasn’t asked a single time to present himself or clarify his identity. He was just… immediately given direct security clearance to wherever he went and that certainly meant _something._

“Tony is in his room,” a voice suddenly says, and he immediately recognises the strong irish accent and relaxes- finding some courage in the comfort of her invisible presence. It’s funny, he thinks blanky, that his entire life he’s been sheltered from the technology of this time and the advancement into a world no longer dimmed by repression or a lack of accessibility to convenience and necessity- and now he was literally surrounded by state of the art equipment and tech that far surpasses what’s currently on the market. 

It was one of the first things he made a distinct pro in his arrangement with Tony. 

He would, never again, be hidden from the world like May hid him. 

Almost instantly he regrets the thought, feeling a pang of sadness and desperation at the memory of his aunt and all he’s lost by agreeing to take Tony’s last name. Just another thing to take on his depleting mood sinking deeper and deeper into a horribly familiar muted sadness he’s become well acquainted with living here. 

“He is working at his desk- waiting for your arrival,” she states matter-of-factly and Peter feels a small smile tug at the corner of his lip. Her directness was a warm welcoming compared to how everyone else was constantly skirting around the topic and certain conversations. Around conflict. 

“Thank you, Friday,” he mumbles, distracted with watching his feet as he allows his senses to guide the way. His footsteps echo like loud thumps inside his own mind, and Peter tucks his chin tighter against his chest to avoid making eye contact with anyone he may pass, feeling even more nervous now the closer to Tony he draws and the stronger the buzz gets. (a buzz only made evident the night after their argument. As if it was some sort of suppressed tension manifesting into a hyper-awareness to Tony’s presence out of fear and necessity. If he could _feel_ him, he didn’t have to _fear_ him.)

He honestly doesn’t know how he knows where he’s going, but it feels right and he doesn’t feel like asking Friday for confirmation. 

Stepping up to the door is an entirely different feeling, and before Peter can psych himself out or convince himself to just do this at a different time- the door is swinging open and revealing Tony, dressed in relaxed-attire with sweatpants hanging loosely off his hips and a AC/DC t-shirt hugging the frame of his body. 

It’s the first time Peter has, this up close and personal, seen Tony in anything but suits. Peter’s entire body is suddenly very alert, breathing coming fast as he does his best to look innocent and unconcerned- at least a little less guilty of attempting to orchestrate Tony’s downfall. He hopes it works, though he can’t be sure what with the way Tony is watching him right now. Curious with a bit of annoyance and amusement. 

“Friday said you needed to talk?” Tony asks, and the amusement isn’t lost on Peter on how it’s an exact reversal of roles from two weeks ago, when he bombarded Tony in the lab. Only now, it’s Tony out of his element- confusion drawing his eyebrows together. Not knowing _killed_ him and Peter, again, felt powerful for the smallest second. 

“Call me pathetic, or-or anything else you want, but I can’t do this by myself. I-It’s, I’m not made like you. I can’t- I won’t.” Peter is stumbling over his words but his delivery is still strong and he pretends to not notice the appreciative trail of Tony’s eyes over his body as he takes in the bulge of muscles tensing in Peter’s arms as he folds his arms across his chest and Peter suddenly feels too.. bare, wishing now that he would have wore something a little more convering. 

Tony bites his lip, _hard,_ and Peter’s hit with the sudden desire to see what Tony tastes like. 

There’s a disbelieving chuckle, but Peter doesn’t waver before his gaze and instead sticks his nose in the air in defiance rather than tucking in on himself the second it was made clear Tony wasn’t exactly pleased. Tony stills in his moment of appreciation on Peter’s body, and frowns. “You may be wound up extremely tight, but nobody is incapable of expressing themselves through intimacy. You’re feeding too much thought and negativity into the experience. Just get it over with.”

Said so much easier than done, and Peter wants to just smack some sense into Tony because the man’s ignorance truly can’t make him this daft. “You think I haven’t tried?” Peter asks, mirroring Tony’s frown as he hugs his arms tighter around his body. 

“We’re talking about an orgasm, Peter. I’m not asking you to invent time travel.”

“I will,” Peter says all too seriously. “I’ll do whatever you ask of me but _please-_ not this. Not alone.” He doesn’t care if he has to plead at this point. He will reduce himself down to begging and groveling on his hands and knees. He’s not too prideful to admit when he’s lost. 

Tony is stunned into silence for a moment that rapidly extends into three. Then five. Then- “Would you rather we wait for our wedding night? I can.. I dont fucking know. _Guide_ you?”

Tony’s nose wrinkles and Peter finds it unfair how, even upset with the man and embarrassed from their last encounter, he can still find things Tony does adorable. 

Peter winces, but nods. “If you will,” he whispers shakily, trying not to let memories consume him as their last encounter fizzes to the surface and demands Peter feel and experience Tony’s rage just one more time. 

He still doesn’t understand why it happened, or how he can mend the damage done. He’s still as annoyed, confused and.. enthralled? By the entire ordeal- by the man, and he was desperately trying to move beyond that one little fluked moment to see exactly what Tony can offer him. 

It seems the man was capable of compassion.

Tony nods but rolls his eyes. “If I would’ve known you were a virgin, I wouldn’t have agreed to this arrangement.”

Annnddd, Peter spoke too soon. Apparently hoping for one civilized conversation was asking for too much. Stubborn or not, there’s nothing he can do to change Tony’s attitude or opinion on him. He would just have to grit his teeth and accept that tony… he was good. 

Peter was sure he was capable of good, at the very least. 

When it seems nothing more is the be said, Tony goes to turn away but Peter stops him with a hand on the door. “I-” _breath Peter. Have courage._ “I want my aunt at the wedding. And my friends.”

“Peter-”

“Tony, please,” he pleads in a intentionally small voice. “I-I have done as you’ve asked. I gave up college, and my freedom without a fight. I’ve stayed in my room, faithfully, for nearly a month without complaint. I haven’t even received my phone yet and I- please,”

He holds his breath for an exact seven seconds before Tony huffs and Peter smiles wide. “That entire rant you did there,” Tony says, waving his hand expressively in the air, “wasn’t needed. Your aunt is coming- as well as your friends. The invites were sent out a week ago.”

Peter can’t help himself as excitement floods his body. He claps his hands and jumps up and down, squealing like a high school cheerleader who just got her first car, before flinging himself at Tony. 

The man catches him with little more than a grunt, easily taking his weight, and Peter’s hit with the impression of completeness as their bodies become perfectly aligned. It’s the first time they’ve touched so completely, so fully and aligned, and it lasts three entire seconds before Tony shoved him away, but it’s still long enough Peter’s core shakes with the weight and memory of Tony’s arms draped around his torso like they belonged. 

The buzz intensifies to incredibly overwhelming heights- washing over Peter in wave after wave. “Let’s not do that again- ever.” Tony says, pulling away from Peter- stunning the boy into silence as he reels to grasp reality when so completely intoxicated by Tony’s proximity; by the sudden attack on his senses as he breathes in Tony’s scent and allows it to anchor the fantasy of the man draped across Peter’s body- arms enclosing his small frame as Tony pounds into him with unforgiving reverence. Thorough but _hard._ Claiming his mouth, his body- his—

The door slams in his face not even a second later. 


	5. He can't be SpiderMan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been some time- hasn't it? I want to express my deepest apologies to those of you who have faithfully waited for this chapter. I was cruel to leave such a large gap and I have no reason to offer other than the overly used explanation of- 'life'. But seriously, November is my BUSIEST month of the year and, to make it up, I'm intending to do two weekly updates for every week of December, totaling it to at least 8 updates. My treat to you. :)

The buzz is his shadow, an invisible energy guiding him with persuasive wisps as it pulled him in one direction- the direction of Tony, of a thought-to-be-comfort, while insistent hands pulled him in a million other directions. He felt unstable today; scrambled and teetering a few notches off of being steady with this dizziness clinging to his mind like a thick, dark fog dragging him down everytime he tried focusing. 

At first, he thought it was nerves. Today was the  _ day.  _ The one he’s prayed for for eighteen years and now- it’s rushed at him with such speed it was a bit unsettling. But then a sense of acceptance washed over him as a handful of women tugged his clothing off and he was dressed in a traditional white bridal dress- usually designated for female brides but, given his reproduction status, he was to be addressed as a wife. Degraded by being assigned traditionally feminine clothing simply because he has ovaries. 

Peter didn’t mind it, honestly. He was a trophy wife, now. He needed to get used to it. 

The dotted vision and dizziness weren’t from nerves, and he felt silly to even think such a thing when, for the last week, he’s certain he’s become numb. Distantly uncaring. These past few weeks have been exhausting and taken a toll on his mental health, sure, but the most notable difference in his habits were his lack of calories. 

Most days, he didn’t eat. On the days he did, he was lucky if he got even a thousand calories in him. He could feel himself starving; his spider mutated cells attacking his human cells and feeding off of whatever energy they could latch on to. He’s become pale and lethargic; purple bags a prominent visualisation of his missing nutrients that clung beneath his eyes and made him look so sickly it startled himself when he’d catch glimpses of his reflection in the mirror. 

When he was being poked and prodded, needles gliding across his skin from where they were safely tucked deeply in the white material of his dress as they did last minute mending- he knew they could feel his ribs, too. It probably reflected very poorly on Tony, and while Peter wanted to defend the man, he knew it would only make matters worse so he stayed painfully silent and allowed his sinking belly to be subject to their poked ministrations. 

In the sea of sensations, Tony was an anchoring presence encouraging Peter’s body to stay still and obedient, even if he was uncomfortable having his eyebrows plucked and hair styled- hair spray matting it with intentional curls pulled in random directions. 

And yet, despite being woken up at six this morning and the clock on the wall already reading just after noon- he’s not been offered any food.

His blood sugar keeps rising and spiking, dehydration mixed with malnutrition and he was just a walking medical case waiting to be diagnosed with a simple glance from his aunt and Mj. They were way too observant. Tony, on the other hand, hasn’t bothered talking to him since their discussion last week, and Peter wonders what he will say when he sees the state the boy is in. Will he even care?

Probably not. 

Regardless, it was show time. 

The length of Peter’s body crawls hotly with an unknown giddiness as he, fully dressed with makeup caked on and his hair styled, is led down a long corridor. His prior exhaustion evaporates into a void of nothingness as his previous emptiness contends with his budding excitement. With each step forward he can feel it choking him- the known fact that he is so completely out of his element, being led down a hallway decked out in the fanciest decorations he’s ever seen; Stark industry Sentinels lining the hallway and blocking off each available entrance. 

It made Peter feel so special. Like he was Royalty. 

Peter, beyond the hushed tapping of his high-heeled feet across the tiled floor, can hear the vibration of life and excitement just a room away; trapped in a ball of antsiness and impatience. And the closer they get, the more his dizziness increases but Sheila- a woman on his right who has stuck with him the entire day, tightens her hold on his forearm and, in a strict no-argument sort of way, she pulls him harshly against her side; supporting his weight while offering him a smothered glare. 

“You will pull yourself together,” she hisses in his ear, the other women surrounding them bowing their heads to politely seem oblivious to their conversation. “You stumble when you walk in there and you are done- do I make myself clear?” 

She tightens her hold on Peter’s arm, and it rips a genuine noise of hurt out of his throat that surprises him because- yeah, that’ll leave a bruise and he should definitely worry about the fact that her minimal strength was capable of hurting him but he’s too distracted to even give a crap. 

“Yes.” he whispers, shaking his head hard to try and rid himself of the black dots swimming around his vision; obstructing the hallway. “I-I’m sorry.”

He’s apologized more in the last month than he has in his entire life. 

She chortles. “I would think so. You’re pathetic,” she was right, Peter knew it. It was a wonder he was chosen to marry someone like  _ Tony _ Stark. A freaking elite so above Peter at this point, walking down that aisle, would be fulfilling a century long joke. 

_ An elite? Marrying a commoner?  _

Approaching the buzz that grows beneath his skin- the connection to Tony and he  _ knows  _ it’s a damned connection, he just can’t figure out why, his nerves mellow a bit, evaporating the anxiety created by Sheila's callousness. It’s like his body knows, without a doubt, he is going for Tony- a man who, despite their differences, will reassure him of his asserted control and effortless guidance when Peter feels so helpless and useless. Any doubts, of them- their relationship, their progressing companionship, is destroyed by prospect. 

Both casual guests and selected Paparazzi not seated in the altar stare, with an annoying attentive interest, as Peter’s previously stumbled steps easily transition into self-assured strides as he parts ways from his band of women and smooths out the silk front of his dress. It was a simple thing, beautiful yet not extravagant. It had lace sleeves and partial back (with most of his back exposed) with a silk skirt that flourished behind him in a tail that drug across the floor for a foot or two in his wake. 

He was requested to wear a veil, but given his failing vision and inability to direct himself without seeing everything- due to his missing instincts, he somehow convinced Sheila it didn’t go with his outfit so he was instead let off the hook with a simple flower crown twisted in his hair; white roses and small blue flowers tied together with white ribbon. 

Any other situation, and he’d fawn over his appearance. Admire how well it drew together and how he pulled it off, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel any sort of excitement for his attire. He felt like a prized pig being dressed up for auction. 

Pretending not to notice his audience, and surprised over the fact of how intimate the entire thing seemed when he figured Tony would blast their wedding publicly across every single social media outlet he could, Peter dabbed at his eyes for no apparent reason, just a form of distraction and to keep his hands busy, and continued on down the hallway. 

What he was most excited about today was seeing May and his friends. An entire month felt like a whole life away and he can’t handle it, being away from the people who have, for years, been his anchor. He misses them. 

“Peter-Peter, is it true Mr. Stark rescued you off the street-”

“Peter- How does it feel to know you have caught the world’s most eligible bachelor and made him settle down?”

“Is Pepper Potts a prominent role in your relationship? Given hers and Tony’s relationship?”

Hundreds of cameras flash in unison to their rapid fire questions, and Peter’s stomach rolls. 

“Ignore them,” the woman in question says, saddling up next to Peter, her presence enough to stun the paparazzi before they shake off the shock and begin, with Peter forgotten, asking her questions. She links their arms, and her hand is a welcomed weight in his palm as she presses them together. “It’s what I do.”

Her smile is warm in the vast coldness he’s been surrounded by, and Peter feels the urge to burrow closer to her. Drawn like a moth to the flame. “I don’t know how you do it.” he admits, the rolling in his stomach increasing until it mimics the tempo of a whirlpool. His nausea spikes. Silently, his eyes fall to the thick set of double doors in front of him; closed but nevertheless daunting because he knows what waits just beyond them. Who, more specifically. For the time, he lets himself become entranced by the way Pepper’s fingers feel against his; the faint vibration of her heart tapping against the side of his finger in a smooth, slow tempo. 

“If you pretend you don’t notice their presence, eventually you don’t.” she admits in a soft, quiet voice. Noticing the tremor racing down Peter’s spine, Pepper gives his hand another solid squeeze. “Hey, you okay? Are you ready?”

Her gentleness makes Peter feel like he is breakable. 

He gulps, but nods. “Yes,” All good things must come to an end, he supposes, and he knows Pepper must let go eventually. “I’m fine,”

One last inspection, Pepper looks over his outfit and hair before nodding. “Let’s go, then.” 

The double doors swing open.

\---

“Hi, Peter,” Tony’s voice is so uncharacteristically soft, a caress along Peter’s every sense, and  _ god  _ does it make his heart hammer at his ribcage; a loud drumming in his ears. Just like the first time he met the man, little more than a month ago with so many cringy experiences entrapped within the short time, Peter is perplexed and amazed by the man and his beauty. By his simple outward appearance but extraordinary existence. 

The emotions flooding his body throw him off, and Peter stumbles over his feet- no longer guided by assurance and a self-constructed poise. In a movement as fast as lighting, an expected speed from a literal superhero that doesn’t just play dress up like Peter, Tony’s hand darts out and grabs Peter’s elbow, steadying him with a cold smile. His body awakens at the touch, responds to the warmth, and with the sudden flood of endorphins the buzz decreases to a minor itch that crawls across his skin. Depleting in Tony’s presence, but hovering for when they inevitably parted ways.

“Hi,” he wasn’t sure why they were exchanging pleasantries, but he also wasn’t going to voice disapproval. It was nice to feel seen by the man, even with a hundred people bearing witness to their exchange. Then again, that’s probably why Tony was doing it. To put up an illusion. To make everyone believe he is a perfectly caring husband who dotes on his wife and  _ loves  _ them. 

Tony hesitates for a moment, then lets go of the boys elbow and Peter, with reddening cheeks, takes the three seconds offered to stumble his way up the stairs to the altar; standing before a hundred people but recognizing none of them. 

That’s when it hits him, as his eyes scan the ocean of people surrounding them, all warm eyes comforting but not familiar or soothing. May and his friends didn’t show up. They were absent on the, arguably, biggest day of his life. Even after Tony reassured him they would be here, they  _ weren’t.  _

He combats the flood of disappointment, wills the tears burning at his eyes to not fall, and instead focuses on Tony, swallowing back the bile rising in his throat. He thought he was ready to get married, has prepared for it since he was a kid, but now that the actual act of wedding himself off to another person was evolving around him; it felt too soon. Too rushed. He was too young. He had so much more life to experience- the people depended on Spider-Man.

He  _ can’t  _ be Spider-Man if he married himself off to… Off to Iron Man. Tony was a literal competition in Peter’s line of work. 

He can’t get married without May here. He gave up on the illusion of having his father walking him down the aisle, given both of his father figures were dead, but May-  _ she _ was supposed to be here. 

With fluttering eyes, Peter subtly rakes his gaze over Tony’s body while the guests get settled; guided by the marriage officiant who was a middle aged man with a balding head and kind, round eyes to match his expanding stomach. Tony was in a tight-fitting but perfectly tailored navy blue suit, paired with a red tie that had little white polka dots littering it. His hair, as always, was styled in that intentionally disheveled sort of way with his beard perfectly trimmed. 

He smelt heavenly; like roasted coffee, aftershave and something bitter and exotic. Like a tinge of motor oil and pine needles. 

Tony wasn’t looking at Peter and the boy pretended that didn’t hurt. The fact that he even touched him was something,  _ had  _ to count for something. A very, very small victory, but a victory all the same.

Lost in his thoughts, every well-planned word he’d intended to use vanished and he stupidly blurts, “Are you ready to get married?” He wants to ask where his aunt is and why, pitifully, Peter’s single row of chairs was left empty. But he knows better than that. To upset Tony in such a public area, with hundreds there to bear witness to Peter’s disobedience. 

Tony’s lip twitch, obviously fighting a smile, but standing before his audience his composure doesn’t crack. “I wouldn’t be standing where I am if I weren't ready, Peter.”

And okay, that was odd? It almost… Sounded like a reassurance? 

Should he tell Tony he wasn't? That every part of his being was drawing him towards the exit. Should he warn the man that Peter’s stomach was a sinking hole of quick sand and as each second progresses them forward, his stomach becomes noticeably thinner as he literally starves to death in front of Tony- in front of the world with every camera in here angled directly at them. Part of him recognizes in Tony’s presence his dizziness and nausea has dimmed down to manageable levels, but the rational part of him chooses to ignore it for the sake of his sanity. 

Floundering a bit, Peter shrugs, and realizing that they do, in fact, have an audience who has fallen to silence as they expectantly wait for Tony’s next move- he frantically spouts some shit to hopefully divert the attention away from them. “Are the Avenger’s invited?” and, like expected, the very name is like a flame drawing the moths towards it because the cameras frantically begin to pan around the room as they try to confirm Peter’s question- creating a mild frenzy. 

The smile Tony bites back with is teetering on amused, with annoyance curling the edges. It’s an oddly playful sort of smile, and it makes Peter’s stomach feel warm. “As full of questions as always, Mr. Parker.” 

And,  _ oh _ , apparently the formalities were back. Clearing his throat, Peter ducks his head down, averting his gaze. He hated feeling so unsure in Tony’s presence. Like he was walking on eggshells and waiting for that inevitable snap to come. “I’m a very curious person.”

“Did your aunt never teach you that old saying- ‘Curiosity killed the cat?’” Tony asks, and Peter watches the room of chaos with deaf ears. 

He flinches, fighting his submissive nature at the clear displeasure in Tony’s voice and he really, really wishes he were anywhere but here. “I-Of course she did. My lost manners are entirely to be blamed on me,” he mumbled, voice cracking with embarrassment and fear that he hopes Tony won’t pick up on.

Damn it, Peter was really trying today and disintegrating before Tony’s very gaze over a minor bumpy conversation was going to get him nowhere in life. He wasn’t this awkward growing up- at least not with mentally mature people. Peter has always been  _ that  _ shy yet confident nerd- the one who was a bit unstable with his lanky limbs but could run laps around the competition at science fairs and anything of relation that didn’t require physical strength. Tony intimidated him and no matter how cocky or confident Peter became in Spider-Man’s skin, nothing prepared him for the smothering, yet intoxicating, aura of Tony Stark. 

Recently, though, he’s lacked structure and it’s set everything off-balance. Tony offered the proper discipline required to reign Peter in and keep him obedient, but the man has done a poor job of setting up a warm, safe environment and allowing Peter’s inner-monster to just… relax and not feel so on edge and nervous all the time. 

Tony awakened every part of Peter’s body and yet, he never had the intention to tame it. He wishes he could just tell the man to fuck off already but that wasn’t an option, was it? 

Tony side-eyes him, but doesn’t turn his head enough to offer Peter the proper acknowledgement he deserves.  _ Look at me, damn it, acknowledge the dress! The effort! _ “Is that hard to control?” he asks, and Peter gets the impression Tony was chortling at a joke he wasn’t privy to. “The self-blaming? You don’t have to shoulder all that blame, kid.”

“Well, I do.” and he does. He just doesn’t know why. Probably because he’s done it since he was a kid, with no sibling or friend there to pass the blame off the when he broke a vase or stole a cookie. He’s always taken the blame, even if it wasn’t his own. “I blame myself for everything. I always have.” As children, his next door neighbor chopped his sister’s barbie doll heads off and, despite knowing he would get grounded, Peter took the blame. He shouldered every wrong thing in his life like it were his hands who crafted them: his parents death- Ben’s death, being bitten by the radioactive spider. 

Maybe, maybe if he’d been more observant he wouldn’t be  _ here. _

“You blame yourself for this?” Tony inquires, gesturing his hand outwards- towards their overflowing room filled with people Peter didn’t recognize. 

_ For our wedding? Or companionship? _

Peter nods, once, and digs his fingernails into his palms. “I-I do, in a way. Maybe if I, if I weren’t so difficult the government would have found me someone different-  _ You  _ someone different.” Peter wants to say it, knows he shouldn’t, but it’s bubbling up his throat and burning his tonsils like holy water that just needs to be spilled. In a decidedly softer voice, he continues, “Maybe if I weren’t so difficult, you would actually want to marry me.”

“You think I don't want to marry you?” Tony scoffs, and Peter squeezes his eyes closed- afraid of what truth may lie on Tony’s face. Alone, in his room, he can craft fantasy after fantasy. Envision a life, a world, where he and Tony met that first day and just  _ fell in love. _ He can pretend their children will have loving parents, and live in a healthy environment. But here, now, reality is mocking him as she chimes, hauntingly, in a voice oddly reminiscent to Tony’s. “I said I don’t- _ won’t  _ ever love you- the disagreement regarding your sexual experience was simply because I was stunned.” the words, even weeks later, still sting like salt on a fresh wound. Peter wasn’t sure he would ever get used to the idea of Tony’s intention being strictly platonic, with sexual interest. 

Tony’s sincerity seemed forced and Peter took it for what it was. “I disagree,” Peter says, the words laced with anxiety, enough that he notices Tony draw back ever so slightly, towards the stairs and away from Peter, with dark eyes pinning him on the spot. “I think you’re disappointed with me. Y-You’re Tony Stark, surely you deserve someone b-better. Someone experienced.” 

Tony’s shoulders lock, squared back with enough tension Peter could feel it radiating off of him. Almost immediately he regrets even saying anything, but retracting now would only further upset Tony. He knew it. 

“We don’t have to do this,” Peter rushes, attempting to mend his previous mistake when he sees Tony open his mouth to speak, eyes calculating. “I understand my role, and I appreciate the opportunity. I apologize for ever speaking against you.” 

Tony’s eyes narrow, and his nose wrinkles in an obvious attempt to reign himself in. “Speaking  _ against  _ me, or  _ at  _ me, Peter?” his head tilt is curious, if not a little endearing, and Peter’s stomach swoops. “You’ve mistaken my reservations as disappointment. Perhaps we need to more than reconcile tonight. I’ll remind you not only am I  _ happy  _ with the arrangement, but I fully intend to  _ enjoy  _ it.”


	6. And who would you be, Peter?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is, a month late. I could speak to you of my recent tragedies, explain exactly what has happened that dampened my creativity and motivation, but I don’t wish to burden you guys with my problems. 
> 
> So here it is!! 
> 
> Chapter 6. It was admittedly a little difficulty to get back in their mindsets, so the next few chapters will be a sort of rough touch-and-go basis but hang in there. I’m so excited to finally bring you guys more!! <3 thank you so much for your kind words. Every comment means SO much to me.

Peter stares. It’s all he can do- stare. His heart is frantic and trembling like a hummingbird inside a cage too large for it, beating its wings desperately against bars, crying for sweet release which was  _ just  _ out of sight, out of reach. The hand, the very hand that has cradled the world within its palm, crafted  _ everything  _ out of nothing, slides with a delicacy Peter was never aware it to be capable of, across his cheek to fold, there, fingers tucked beneath his jaw, thumb smoothing across parted lips which tremble with every breath. 

Tony says nothing, seems incapable of saying anything, silently tips Peter’s head back with another hand moving to cup the back of his head. The tips of Peter’s fingers feel numb. The entire world has turned into an inward breath, long and drawn out and it feels like it’s never-ending. The world around them melts into nothing, becomes blanketed with a white mist which descends upon everything, on all the world, on all his senses, muting it to the point of chaotic perfection. 

Only he and Tony exist in the moment. 

It’s been his most anticipated experience, the kiss from not a lover of the night but a partner intended for life. A man who would cause his insides to tremble, his heart to quiver, his mind to cry. And yet, he can not breath. Can not move. Can only watch, through half lidded eyes, as the earth quivers at his feet, as his lungs attempt to work beyond the pressure crushing his chest, as the words of finality ring within his ears;

_ I now pronounce you Husband and Bride. You may now kiss your Bride.  _

It seems Tony has every intention of doing just that. But Peter- time has adopted a stagnant progression, extending the moment on for an eternity. A terrifying, silvery sweet sort of moment where his insides respond to the prickling heat of Tony’s presence, to the warmth of his caress, to the ghost of his breath. He can feel everything, nothing,  _ too  _ much yet,  _ somehow,  _ not enough and with a sudden burst of impatient courage he’s rocking forward on the tips of his heels to slam his lips against Tony’s. 

It’s violent yet timid, the clashing of two unfamiliar souls prodding at one another as Tony lets out a surprised, startled- “ _ Hmph,”  _ and draws Peter in, pulls Peter against him, and there’s hunger in the search of his lips as they glide across Peter’s, as his tongue traces the seam of the boy’s lips. Peter’s heart has reached a crescendo and it’s beating  _ wildly  _ against his ribs and he’s  _ breathless.  _

Tony’s lips are soft, and perfect, and his hands frame Peter’s face and it’s-it’s everything the boy has ever wanted, ever dreamed of. He’s stuffed full, bursting at the seam with  _ everything  _ his body seems to be feeling and it’s overwhelming and urgent and-

Tony pulls back just as Peter tilts his head, opens his mouth- moves his hands to lay them on Tony’s shoulders, offering the man a silent permission, a silent goading. “ _ Go ahead,”  _ his traitorous body had said,  _ “Take me.”  _

His nerves, his anxiety, his every worry and displeasure was forgotten, cast aside, locked away for later reflection and now,  _ now  _ all Peter can do is rock back, unstable, and stare at Tony with wide eyes and cherry swollen lips. 

Tony looks unhinged, eyes dark- pupils blown. His jaw is locked, lips still glistening with Peter’s saliva. The look has Peter squirm, his insides erupting in uncontainable flames which scorch at the back of his skull, at his jaw, his lips- at every point in his body where Tony was directly linked. 

And trust Peter to be the first one who speaks. “Thank you.”

Tony looks startled by this, if not a little amused. “Thank you?”

“I-” but Peter can’t say more,  _ shouldn’t  _ say more, before they’re thankfully interrupted. The room around them slowly comes back into focus, the cheering of an audience ringing loud and intrusive at Peter’s sensitive ears. If he reacts to the sudden sensation of bleeding ear drums popped by the shrill screams of congratulations, Tony doesn’t acknowledge it as he turns to the audience with a beaming smile and Peter’s right hand held in his, both extended in the air for display. 

“My wife, ladies and gentle, Mister Peter Stark.” 

~~~~

He’s not given a moment to collect himself, to breath and adjust, whisked away by numerous different faces, all unfamiliar, where he’s bombarded with questions and requests for photos. It’s a never ending current he’s trapped within, caught within the whirlpool of Tony’s life for only an hour and he’s already overwhelmed with it all. 

It’s nearly an hour  _ after _ the ceremony, and the reception has begun, where the excitement has fizzled out and the guests have dispersed to do their own thing, that Peter’s allowed a moment's pause. A second to  _ breath  _ air his own and not filtered through several other mouths. He finds a corner in the back, secluded, tables and chairs hiding him from the room of guests- shadows offering him enough coverage to scratch at his itchy flower-crown and adjust his sliding gown. 

Common misconception, but dresses were  _ not  _ comfortable. Nor were heels. Peter’s feet ached, his calf muscles deliciously sore, and his lower back  _ hates  _ him. His mind, his thoughts, which were usually a never ending stream of reminded failures, inadequacies, anxieties- was silent for the moment. Blissfully. Worryingly. 

And in his secluded heaven, he’s found. 

Seen by big, beautiful brown eyes that, in the warm lighting, have flickers of gold that seem to tremble with unshed tears. “You’re beautiful.”

He moves fast, too fast, nearly upsetting his balance and toppling headfirst over his own feet as he spins around and comes face to face with the single most important person in his life, the one person he thought to have forgotten him. “May,” he breathes, and her very name sends a thrill of excitement down his spine. “May,” it’s repeated for digesting purposes, disbelief echoing loud in the singular word, and before either can react he’s throwing his arms around her and  _ crushing  _ her body against his own with a strength he knew to be slightly supernatural but he didn’t  _ care.  _

It was  _ May.  _ She came. She came- she  _ actually  _ came. “Peter.” her voice sounds as stretched as his, as wet. 

He holds on, for as long as he can, breathes in her scent and relishes in her warmth and her hold- a hold he thought himself to never experience again. And somehow, the last month of isolation, and pain, and humiliation, and fear- it was all worth it. For this singular moment. 

“I didn’t think you’d come.” he finally admits with an incredulous laugh which bubbles at the edge with a repressed sob. “I-I thought i’d never see you again.”

“And miss this?  _ You? Never.” _

He pulls back, just enough to look at May, at her watering eyes and pressed lips. “I found him.” he whispers. “Or rather, he found me but,  _ May,  _ I was  _ found.”  _

“I know, honey, I know.” her words snag in her throat. 

“You’re late.” he doesn’t mean to be so crass, so blunt, so  _ accusing,  _ but this woman means the world to him and the idea that she just missed the biggest moment of his life makes him feel hollow. 

May looks down at their hands, which are now somehow entangled, and reaches out her other hand to cup Peter’s face. The way she regards him, with quiet pride, makes Peter’s body sob.  _ Finally.  _ “Not late. Held up. Slight misunderstanding, but I saw it all.” She says, then amends with, “ _ We  _ saw it all.”

Peter’s skin prickles with awareness. “We?” he echoes, eyes scouting the busy dance floor. “Ned? Mj? They came too?”

May nods. “Couldn’t leave home without them.” she laughs, a sound Peter has  _ missed.  _ “Literally. Maryjane threatened me with several different deaths and Ned refused to let go of my hand.”

To hear of his friends, even through story, makes Peter inexplicably happy. “And where are they?”

“Here, somewhere. They tried catching your attention a few times after the ceremony, but you were understandably busy.”

Suddenly, Peter feels guilty. Of his life, of his negligence.  _ How had he not seen them?  _ “I-Tony’s life is very demanding,” he frowns, deflating. “I-I had a lot of people asking for photos and I didn’t think you guys even came.”

It’s a suit of protection, a defense mechanism which has him defending his negligence, his ability to overlook the three people in his life that are arguably his  _ entire  _ life. He should’ve been more observant, less self-absorbed. Tony’s earlier question filters to mind, taunting, smug; 

_ Is that hard to control? The self-blaming?  _

His thoughts must reach the surface, pulling at the thin corners of his lips, because May’s hand is pressing tight and warm against his cheek once more. “We understand that, honey. We’re  _ happy _ for you. Never think otherwise.” 

_ Happy? For him?  _

A sound to his right, stifled yet undeniably  _ his _ voice has Peter looking up sharply and away, over May’s shoulder to the direction of noise and his breath stutters in his chest when he sees Tony; elegant, effortless Tony, cascading around the room as peaceful as water from a cliff. He moves from person to person, pauses for a word, a quick greeting, then the current is carrying him away and he’s greeting another. Never dismissive, never crude. Always attentive, kind. Offering them the illusion of his care as he listens to their congratulations and makes them feel  _ heard _ despite only being able to offer them a few seconds. 

The idea of  _ that _ being Peter’s  _ husband _ makes him feel breathless and giddy. “Tony Stark, huh?” May prods, gentle, a soft teasing accompanying her proud smile. “And to think, you thought you’d  _ never _ be married. Now look at you, an  _ Elite.”  _

He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that he’s not an Elite, will never be. The people in Tony’s life have told him that, continuously. Despite his title as Tony’s wife, he would never truly fit in his life.  _ Should _ never. He was a commoner, a lowly little boy granted an opportunity that far exceeded his previously sad life. He was to be displayed as a trophy, nothing more. 

His smile wavers, it must, because the way she looks at him feels  _ intrusive.  _ Sad. “Yeah, look at me.” 

And look she does. He’s held at arm's length, prodded with a gaze, with attentive eyes. But not seen. “You look happy.”  _ Does he?  _ “Does he make you happy?” 

The question feels simple, yet impossible. Loaded. How can he answer, articulate a response that will appease May while also not offering her more than he’s willing? Tony makes him… yearn. He wants more, craves more. He’s insecure in the man's presence, feels small and irrelevant. But in his absence? He feels hollow. In his  _ absence _ , he can still feel him. That invisible current sparking, beckoning, luring him closer to the direction of Tony is harsh tugs and relentless shoves. 

Tony makes him feel lonely. Isolated. Unwanted, a burden. He makes him feel like a  _ project _ Tony is just waiting to solve. To conquer. 

“Yes.” He finally says, and it feels like the truth. “He- He’s understanding, May, and kind. My first day with him was… He answered all my questions, helped me when I felt confused.” He smiles, catches sight of Tony over her shoulder again. “And respectful.  _ So _ respectful.” 

“I’m-“ May begins, but Peter is pulled from the safety of her arms and deposited into another before she can even finish her thought. 

“Peter-Fucking-Parker, you  _ ever _ disappear like that again and I will kick your  _ ass.”  _ A panicked, breathy,  _ relieved _ voice whispers harsh in his ear, the arms around his neck tightening to the point that breathing became hard but he didn’t care. He didn’t  _ care.  _ His arms wound around their torso without a second thought and he hugged them just as fiercely, just as desperate. 

“Not like I did it willingly,” he matches the wavering voice, tears bursting hot at the seam of his eyes. 

Maryjane, the once woman of his dreams, pulls back with narrowed eyes and playfully punches his shoulder. A reflection of their youth. “You could’ve picked up a phone, asshole. I-  _ we _ were all worried. We had to find out in some fucking tabloid where you’d run off to.” 

“Not intentionally, Mj. I’ve been-“ closed off, hidden, isolated from the world. From the media. No phone, no internet, no human contact. “Busy, with the wedding. With Tony. I-I never meant to shut you out.” 

“You better not have, asshole.” Another punch, which grazes his bicep. He realizes now, with Mj still crowding his space, how close to tears his friend truly is. How bothered she’d been by his absence. 

But the emotions are quickly sucked up, forgotten, and she’s leaning in conspiratorially to whisper harshly in his ear: “What about the web-head? I’ve not seen him around since you disappeared. Crime in Queen’s has increased by sixty percent since your absence.” 

“By  _ what?” _

He grabs her arm, possibly a little too tight, and tugs her further into his corner and away from May, away from any other curious ears. 

“It’s- my absence is really  _ that _ noticeable?” 

“ _ His _ is, yeah. I think the police captain has even started putting up posters searching for you.” 

Peter snorts. “He hates me. He’s never let that be a hidden fact. I’m a vigilante in his eyes. Seeker of personalized justice.” 

It makes Peter burn with annoyance, with a thin veil of anger. His entire youth was dedicated to protecting the very city the police had abandoned and in his quest of saving those who needed to be saved- he was branded as the bad guy. The  _ fuck _ up. Chief Howard has been very vocal about his opinion of Spiderman. 

“He hated the  _ idea _ of you, but with you gone he can’t keep up with the crime. In the last week there’s been three major robberies and several casualties. It’s bad out there, Pete.” 

“I-I can’t do anything. Tony… he doesn’t  _ know.”  _

Peter feels helpless, irritated. His body thrums with the need to  _ protect.  _ He itches to feel the sticky air of New York slapping at his face, tugging at his body as he becomes weightless and  _ soars.  _ He wants to feel needed, to feel purpose. 

Without his alternate identity, without Spider-Man thrumming beneath the surface of his skin, waiting to be called upon, to be put to use, he feels  _ useless.  _

Maryjanes gaze is sharp. “That’s never stopped you before. May doesn’t know and yet you’ve been running around in spandex for the last several years.” 

“Tony’s different,” Peter hisses, alarmed, eyes searching the dance floor in paranoid stutters to make sure the man in question isn’t anywhere close to them. “He’s an Avenger, Mj. He- if he were to find out who I am, it would be the definitive end of Spiderman.” 

“And why’s that?” She presses, “Why does his knowledge of your alternate identity mean the end?” 

Peter falters. “I-  _ Spiderman _ is a child’s fantasy. I spent my teenage years running around in fucking spandex, Mj. Being me-  _ him _ , while being with Tony, it’s not possible. It’s like- like a conflict of interest, or something.” 

Tony could take it away. All of it. Spiderman, his identity, his purpose. He could put an end to Peter’s little game of hero and he didn’t  _ want  _ that. The end of his freedom. The excitement. The thrill. 

Maryjane turns, slow and arch and graceful, and when Peter follows her gaze he finds she’s watching Tony. “He doesn’t have to know.” She insists, a mischievous glint in her eye. “He doesn’t have to know.” 

_ He doesn’t have to know.  _

“But he will find out,” Peter argues, shaking his head, refusing to cave to the temptation. His caved stomach and faltering senses tinged to awareness at that moment, choosing then to remind him even if he  _ did _ cave, he would be going out into the world with less-than-ideal preparation. He couldn’t hear three feet in front of him, could barely hold his own weight. Fighting, as Spiderman? Virtually impossible given his current state. 

“Ned has kept you hidden and safe for  _ years,  _ Peter. Can’t you trust he’ll do it, now?” 

At the mention of his best friend, Peter scans the crowd and spots Ned mulling around by the large bar, not engaging the bar man in conversation but rather spinning the umbrella in his cup in slow circles. 

He can feel his resolve bending. “It’s not that simple, Maryjane. I-I don’t have the freedom I once had. I don’t even have my phone.” 

“Where’s your phone?” 

Peter’s eyes widened.  _ Shit.  _ “I dropped it the day I was taken,” he lies, rushed, obvious, fingernails raking down his left arm in a scratch of distraction. Of nerves. “I haven’t thought to replace it.” 

Mj doesn’t look convinced. “We’ll get you a new one. A better one. Just  _ trust _ us, Peter.” 

That was never the question. On rather he trusted them or not. He did, with his life. Tony, however? What would the man do when he figured out Peter’s secret? Would he end the marriage, end Peter? Lock him up, throw away the key and never grant him another breath of fresh air? 

Or would he be shoved off to the life of a Hunter? Peter has  _ betrayed _ him.  _ Lied  _ to him. He didn’t think Tony would take that very lightly. 

“I’ve always trusted you.” He says, firm. “You wouldn’t know of who I am if I didn’t trust you.” 

“Who you are?” A familiar voice pipes up, echoing Peter’s words as a possessive arm slides around his waist. Peter immediately tenses. “And who would you be, Peter?” 

He’s pulled in close, enveloped in Tony’s side, body shielded by the mans. He swallows, hard, and softly- subtly shakes his head at Mj.  _ Don’t say anything,  _ he pleads. 

“A physics major,” Maryjane offers, the subtle transition in conversation effortless. “I was asking Peter if he felt he would finish out his degree, or if he was content with where he currently is.” 

Peter never told Tony his major, and he wonders if the way Tony’s eyebrows raise in surprise because he’s remembering all those weeks ago when Peter had been summoned to his lab. He’d been amazed by all the lab equipment. Stunned by the sheer opportunity laid out before him, and yet Tony  _ thought  _ he was just simply ogling. That he, surely, wouldn’t know how to use any of the equipment. 

It thrilled Peter to know he could shock even Tony Stark. 

“A physics major?” He echoes, sounding pleasantly surprised. “I didn’t know you were interested in physics.” 

Peter flushes as Tony’s gaze is turned on him, feels the punch of excitement and nerves as they ascend his spine; twirling and constant when in Tony’s presence. “You never asked.” 

He’s sure it’s weird, to Maryjane. Weird to see the sort of detached, yet hopelessly attached exchange between callous husband and invested wife. Peter knew everything there was to know about Tony, the glossy exterior, that is. And it seems Tony knew nothing about him beyond his name and childhood trauma. Their relationship was unlike Mj’s, or Ned’s. It was imperfect, and flawed. 

Broken shards of glass translated just that, stains of red wine across the walls in Tony’s dining room illustrating just how unhinged Tony really was when it came to Peter. How unhappy. They weren’t doing a drunken tango of slowly evolving love. 

They’ve found their place, their pace, and there’s no chance of progression beyond this exchange. Perhaps a bit more discovery, a bit more understanding, but nothing  _ beyond. _

“I suppose it never crossed my mind,” Tony says, leaving the,  _ Perhaps it’s because I didn’t care,  _ left unspoken for the sake of saving Peter the embarrassment in front of his friend. “You must be Maryjane. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

Tony turns on MJ so quickly Peter can’t help but snort at how her eyes widen comically, or how she shuffles on her feet as her growing nerves get the better of her. Mj prides herself on her control, her callous exterior, but it seems even Tony could pry beneath the facade and faze the woman. 

He keeps his arm around Peter’s waist but offers the other to Mj, shaking her hand with quiet respect. “The pleasures all mine. I’m just relieved Peter  _ finally  _ found someone.” 

Shame heats his face, red and hot. “Yes, because I was so horrible before.” 

Tony pulls back at that exact moment and panic flares in Peter’s chest. “Where are you going?” He asks, already missing the weight and warmth of Tony’s arm draped around his back, the heavy curve of his hand at his hip. 

“To dance,” Tony says, on automatic, prompting Peter with an open smile and sly wink. Then, he surprises  _ both _ of them when he holds his hand out to Peter. “We’ve put it off long enough. I do believe you owe me a first dance.” 

Peter stares at Tony, then at his hand, then back at Tony and up at Mj, moving in fractured steps before he  _ finally _ accepts the invitation with a swooping belly and places his hand very lightly in Tony’s. The responding smile makes him light headed. 

It gives him the opportunity to pretend Tony was genuinely ecstatic to be dancing with him. 

He’s led to the middle of the floor, the guests all fanning out and offering the couple an uncontended dance floor and Tony spins to face Peter. 

“Your friend thinks very little of your dating abilities,” Tony begins, and Peter thinks, for one second, that maybe he’s bringing it up to chastise him for his inexperience but then Tony is smiling and Peter realizes he’s just poking harmless fun. 

“I was never known to harbor  _ any _ abilities when it came to dating, so it’s understandable.” Peter shrugs, seemingly careless, when his entire body burns. This conversation is just reminding him of what tonight means and although he’s not  _ prepared,  _ he’s intoxicatingly excited. Nervous. 

Peter can barely breath. This feels casual,  _ right.  _ The way Tony draws him in, draws him close, placing a hand on Peter’s waist while silently encouraging the boys' hands to find their placement. Finally, they’re fit together. Like two puzzle pieces, intertwined for eternity. 

Tony’s right hand squeezed Peter’s left as a song the boy doesn’t recognize begins to flood the room, slowly building in volume and courage. “The Virgin Mary,” Tony confirms, a paraphrase of something hurtful he’d said what seems like years ago. “A title you wear comfortably.” 

“Not comfortably,” Peter shakes his head, looks at where their hands are clasped, and swallows. “Forcefully content. Do you think I like being… incapable of intimacy?” 

“Maybe you do,” Tony purrs, and his voice is suddenly at Peter’s ear- pulsing there with chills bursting across Peter’s skin. “Maybe you like the idea of me ruining your innocence.” 

Peter squirms and swallows, core clenching at how ridiculously hot that sounded. Tony had  _ no _ right to chastise him over his virginity while also attempting to make it appear as… flirting? It simply wasn’t fair the amount of control one man harbored. 

“Yes, because my every waking thought is how to please you.” 

It is, but Tony doesn’t know that. 

“There’s the bite.” Tony grins. “I was wondering if you even  _ knew _ what sarcasm was. I can handle your inadequacy regarding intimacy, and your ridiculous refusal to call me anything other than the dreaded, “Sir,” but I could  _ not _ handle someone who doesn’t understand sarcasm. It’s my second language.” 

And was this… Tony was being  _ pleasant?  _ Surprisingly. Unprompted. 

“Perhaps if I wasn’t locked away in my room for the last month, you might  _ actually  _ know more about me.” 

Tony laughs, wry and slightly distracted, as he looks around the dance floor. “You mistook my curiosity for caring.” 

“God forbid I think my husband  _ cares _ about me.” Peter rolls his eyes, unknowing of  _ where _ this was all coming from. The courage, the disrespect, but it felt  _ nice.  _ After weeks of playing nice, of playing pretend, it was invigorating to speak without filter. 

They begin moving, barely swaying to the music already reaching a peak, hands still locked. “I told you I don’t,” Tony says, gaze and tone sharp. “I’ve never implied I  _ ever _ will.” 

Yeah, Peter knows that.  _ Has _ known it. Doesn’t make it hurt any less. Doesn’t soothe the sudden ache in his throat. 

He looks away, at the ground, at their accumulated audience. He sees May, watery eyes, tight smile, illuminating with pride. 

He looks back up at Tony, watches the flashes of camera’s tremble across his features and makes the shadows on his face dance with one another. God, he’s so beautiful and Peter’s so  _ pathetic.  _

“My aunt made it,” he says instead, hoping the earlier conversation will be forgotten if only for pity. He doesn’t want to cry on his wedding night. “And my friends.” 

“I met one,” Tony points out, dryly. “Maryjane, I believe.” 

Peter nods in confirmation. “Yeah, “ he whispers, drawing himself closer to Tony on instinct. Their chests bump. “She’s my… she’s one of my best friends.” 

He wants to kiss Tony. He wants to kiss him again, until time stands still, until he’s reminded of his completeness, of his role, forgetting the ache of rejection. He wants to kiss Tony and just  _ pretend _ he’s okay. 

“You miss them?” 

“Yeah.” Peter nods again, though this time quicker. The woman singing is belting out words of love, lyrics of aspiration- admiration. “More than anything.” No amount of time on this earth would ever leave him content when it came to his family. There would always be more to say, more to crave.   


He would never have enough time. 

“Then I suggest seeing them again, before we leave. I’m not sure when you’ll be able to see them next.” 

It was the confirmation of everything Peter has feared, everything he dreaded. His lips tremble before he firmly presses them tightly together, creating a seamless line, refusing to cry- to appear weak in front of Tony when the man is an unwavering brick wall. Cold and indifferent to the touch of another body. 

He was being isolated again, closed off from the world, from the warmth of his aunt, his friends. He was stupid to ever believe marrying Tony would grant him  _ some _ kind of freedom. 

“I will.” 

He can feel it before he even hears it, the slow drawl of the voice drawing to an end as the last lyric rings out, loud yet soft. Definitive. Tony pulls back then, drops his arms from Peter’s body. Peter’s own hands curl around nothing, around air, searching for everything yet finding only cold reality. 

Tony regards him for a second, brown eyes guarded, assesive. “You have an hour to mingle before we leave. I expect you to meet me by the doors, ready, exactly one hour from now.” 

“And my family?” Peter prompts, still stupidly hopeful. Because that’s exactly what Mj and Ned are- his  _ family. “ _ What do I tell them?” 

“Goodbye.” 


End file.
